Hills crescendo, rising towards a gradual peak where the note of their existence blares loudest. Valleys hum. Deep crevasses rumble at a pitch near silence. This is a world of music and textures, navigated in sightlessness. There is no sun, or if there is, it cannot be perceived by this planet's souls. Diffuse spirits, who haunt each other with feel, whose loves are expressed in song, crowd the surface. Such is a world crafted by the blind artist, shaped by hands that use touch to perceive as they create. That care not about how things look, but about their texture. These are the hands of an artist for whom color is meaningless and emotion is tactile.
The wind, an omnipresent songbird, effuses a thousand different scents, each matched by a creature's call. Smell leads predators to their meals, prey to their deaths or to sanctuary. The sundry odors replace color as an identifier. Each living beast adds to the cacophony, and by it they learn the depths and textures of their world. It is not black, nor dark, but an absence of the visual. A lack not lamented for it was never understood. Time passes, measured by the planet's subtle spin, to which each living thing is attuned. They have grown to know themselves, and their world on a level more intimate than any light can reach.
The blind artist paints with an invisible brush, paints in the dark on a pitch canvass. Whirling, a dervish in the gloom, creation rises around her. A creation she will never see. But with every touch, with everything that grows or breathes or cries, with every nascent song, she senses the beauty around her. And she weeps.
In her tears, new worlds grow unseen.