You Told Me Love Was Fickle And

Though I Have Seen A Great Deal Of The Sights, Traveled A Number Of The Available Paths, There Are Always Corners That Remain Unexplored, Doors That Remain Unopened.

The Fact That People Are Already Reading And Loving Something I Wrote Is Still Hard To Believe.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

Her Father Picks Different Names For Her As They Change Locales, But He Uses Miranda Often, Presumably Because He Knows How Much It Annoys Her.

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.