Kara, linearity is a lie to an angel. To a messenger. A dreamer at the well. I hope you grasp this by now. For most people the end comes after the beginning, but not for me. Not always. As a psychic you become accustomed to living your life out of sequence. Intimation, foresight. Even prophecy. I've always found myself several steps removed from the natural rhythms of mortal life. Whether I wanted it or not. Death, and birth. They don't happen in quite the way they do for most others. That's the thing about having second sight, possessing a genuine gift. It makes artists and time-travellers of us all. I hope I've been able to show you at least glimpses of that reality, Kara. It's not all smoke & mirrors, my dear. The magic is quite real. You don't need a dawn goddess to tell you that. Not anymore, I hope. Because the truth is I'm a runaway. Just like she wrote. I've been running like a fugitive since the raven-sun was born at midnight, before Man gave name or shape to his exteriorised dreaming. Time, and Space. This before that, or that before this. Each moment is unique, Kara. Every moment sacred, no matter how many times they are rewritten. My beautiful seamstress, I say these things because I want you to know something true about me. About all of us. It might be a truth expressed through fable and fiction – but how else does a poet convey the breadth of themselves to someone they love? I can set fire to the sky. I can fold the entire city in the midst of a seething, terrifying hush. I can warp the continuum itself through the reality-shaping power of consciousness. However, in the end I must rely on words and stories to make myself truly known. Just like everyone else. You're more like me than you realise, Kara. Or I more like you. You’ve always been interested in sight, whether second or first. You’ve always been moved by visions. You have an eye for beauty, after all. Form, flow, and all the variables therein. You've been running for a long time too. Neither of us will ever truly stop. But we can modulate our pace. We can slow down sometimes, pausing to smell the flowers. To appreciate the little things. Families and friendships. Mothers, daughters, fathers and sons. You have always been a winged thing, Kara. A raven, an artist, a traveller of time. You've stitched years and birthed worlds aplenty. Make no mistake. I know because I've watched you from afar. Gladdened, admiring and proud. I even took you to the edge once, in another life. The very edge of Creation's infinite dreaming. We sat together before the tempest and watched its shimmering lights. You told me how you expected darkness, and how strange it was that those beautiful colours reminded you of her. Of both of them. A life then unlived. Sisters yet unsung. Well, you're living it now, my clever girl. Fully, deeply, and I hope with great relish. You marvelled when I told you that dreams and memories could change places at the storm's edge. How I found you all at last, and one day soon at first. I still remember how you took my hand as we sat there. Cherish this dream, Kara. Honour these memories. They might not come again.
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