“Although the tribe are friends with the coca leaf, mescal, ayahuasca, yagé, the titular milk of river toads in the mating season, marijuana, peyote and Salvia divinorum, none of these are as potent for them as the power of a story.
“This tribe are storytellers, and stories are their drugs. For them, stories are not mental escapades, but are lived, richly, fully, viscerally. Every person in the tribe, man, woman and child, has the power; once they begin to recount, the others fall into trances. There are some figures, elders of the tribe, the Tellers, whose power to do this is even stronger…. Unusually, apart from their creation myth, there is no canon, and stories beget stories, in endless circulation, endless supply, one folding into another and generating a third, fourth, fifth, the characters always recognisable but always changing. Every story is told anew, nothing is ever repeated. And the fount of all these stories is that creation myth: a leopard, drunk on the milk of the river toad, brought the world into being with a story, and will end it again when the story finishes.”
— C. D. Rose, Who’s who when everyone is someone else.
In my world, the story never ends, so long as there is someone to pick up the thread. My part is almost over; my chapter. Who will take it on?