I am an oldhead in the indie / narrative / IF scene.
I have played, read, and been moved by stories of many different stripes.
I am physically sickened by the deftness of wish's writing. It is purple prose (positive) without the pretension: indulgent but not ungenerous, poetic but not ungrounded, rejoicing in cadence and sonorance and freedom and in, itself, rejoicing.
I have never wanted to be a bird as much as I have when reading this. I have never before ached for the feeling of chitinous morsels wriggling and writhing in my beak, for the blessing of river water quenching my songbird's throat. I have never wanted to SING - as a bird sings, I mean, to feel the itch of space and to witness the way my bright notes could resolve through it; the peculiar beauty of the art that sanctifies art-work and life-work alike.
It is gentle and tactile too. His words are like a bower, and I long to fall asleep underneath them, dappled by the leaflight, worm-sated, and at ease.
Watch out for this one.