“nothing's Impossible,” Poppet Responds. She Smiles At

Scent Is Often Underestimated, When It Can Be The Most Evocative.

The Boy Spends Most Of His Time Reading. And Writing, Of Course. He Copies Out Sections Of Books, Writes Out Words And Symbols He Does Not Understand At First But That Become Intimately Familiar Beneath His Ink-stained Fingers, Formed Again And Again In Increasingly Steady Lines.

"i Am Already Married," She Remarks To The Empty Air, Twisting The Ring On Her Right Hand That Covers An Sold, Distinctive Scar.

And Then He Tells Her Stories. Myths He Learned From His Instructor. Fantasies He Created Himself, Inspired By Bits And Pieces Of Others Read In Archaic Books With Crackling Spines.

You Prefer Not To See The Gears Of The Clock, As To Better Tell Time.