Allow us to describe what a writist is, exactly...
We, being so comical, fused the labels 'artist' and 'writer' together, so that they may be reborn again as 'writist'.
If you have not guessed already, a writist is one who acts upon both writing and art, or anything of the nature.
There are four sections of the mind to which a writist may bring forth their creativity. We have given them both philosophical and physical titles and natures for a better understanding of what they resemble.

I: The North: Solstice of Winter
Land of ice, reminder of cold emotions, inner conflicts, and long slumber. Embraces thoughts of unforgettable sorrow, misery, and unwanted memories, only to freeze them in their place using poetry.
A place of snow fall and gray skies.
The poet of this Solstice is [To the Welkin]

II: The South: Solstice of Summer
Land of daylight, reminder of love, life, and light. Embraces thoughts of happiness, resolution, and innocence. A place of bright blue skies and complete peace.
The poet of this Solstice is [Winter's Writer]

III: The East: Solstice of Spring
Land of new rain, reminder of fresh ways, revolution, and change. Embraces thoughts of ambition, morphology, and learning.
A place of heavy rainfall and foliage.
The poet of this Solstice is [To the Welkin]

IV: The West: Solstice of Fall/Autumn
Land of Harvest, reminder of inner acceptance, that all things come to an end. Embraces thoughts of celebration to end what is old, and begin what is new, and start the cycle of the seasons yet again.
The poet of this Solstice is [Winter's Writer]

           ~Prologue~

Upon the delicacy of our travels, we expect nothing but sin and the decaying of dead poetry.

We remedy what is dead, and bring it back to life, breathing pumps of fresh verve back into the lungs of those whom have given up in their pathetic fits of despair.


We are The Writists, bound by both the dark and light of art and scripts together.
- Rain Poet

Whether it be by remberance of past or present sagacity of such cruel, yet clever ways....we prevail in vivid images of sublime discorse.
-Nightingale

One form born by the birth of two souls, a fabrication tied to imagination, an inseperable heart coarsing with two paths of lovers' blood.

Morality is never in our nature, neither the thought of sympathy... our intentions rely on bringing others to realize the beauty before them but not understand it.
-Rain Poet

Strengthened by our insecurities...
We voyage across the unwritten pages awaiting our pens.

For we, being strangers to our own founded land, would easily recall tears to be just as nostalgic as those falling embers....burning through our soul manifistation, untouched by society's confliction.
-Nightingale

Do not be afraid of our bitter words, though indeed an alluring set of verses, rather accept them and us for what it and we are.
We all are connected, whether it be by love, hatred, sexuality, morbid threads of essence, talent, or the simple fact we all are caged creatures.

Even we, the secular and free, know this, and despise it.
BUT... accept it, nonetheless.
We believe in the law of the FINE LINE , that good cannot survive without there first being evil, and both, walk hand in hand, though they are philisophical enemies.
-Rain Poet

Anxiety flows endlessly...as our beings intertwine. Though we may have fallen into misery, it is a reluctantcy which we must loathe.
We will find temporary comfort in our words...but true measures within ourselves, and eachother.
-Nightingale

I am Rain, one of the first of The Writists.
I speak of pain being bliss, and endless rapture of the vixens, their breasts and minds continously seducing.
I speak of blood, gore, war, and dark fantasy, horror, mind games, and endless journies to find peace that never existed in the beginning.
My tools are the pens of art, the body of a woman, the lips of a cortesan, the scriptor of writing books, poetry, and psalms, as well as red carvings in my skin.
I am the erotic and dark side of The Writists.

I am Nightingale, one of the first of the Writist. I speak of the mirrored reflections of opposite innocence; all of which include feminine dispositions... their virtue secluded in my sketches. The drawings hold truth to a being all my own.
My instruments include anything of which I find to be of benefit. Be it by whatever is acceptable by thine nature... I will succumb to the path of insanity and accept any blatant inspiration awaiting to be grasped. I focus on faces...eyes pay no reguard to facades. Although not in complete purity, I am encombered by its meaning.

Together we are as one, so different yet so similar. We are the very bodies of goodness and darkness, innocence, and devious nature.