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Kiana, I cannot give you time.

It would fit in an envelope but I am sure it would seep out through the cracks. I have tried, in many different lives, to give time, to beg and borrow and steal it, for every possible reason. I have tried desperation, generosity, jealousy, selfishness, revenge, grief. But in every life, the doors come, and I could not bargain with fate.


I have enclosed something else, to see what it comes out as on your side. I found it in the garden, smooth as a bird’s egg and hollow, but heavier than metal. I wonder if, since I do not know what it is, you will find it useful.

Some days I lie on my back on the sandy dirt and think back on all my lives. More than once, I slept on park benches, or the ground. Other times, sometimes in the same life, I slept on feather beds. I hope, now that you have found your house, your sleep is more comfortable.


Other than memory, I do not seem to have many hobbies. There are books that I sometimes can read. In the long space between my sending a letter and your reply, I read a book about the terrifying faces of angels, and another about the process of becoming soap.

They are not very comforting, these books, with their ideas pressed flat and dried out like dead moths.


Most days I spend in the library because that is the window I crawl out of, the one which changes and shows me most of my gardens. I suppose that you could say exploration is my other hobby, but before the refrigerator worked, it was a matter of not contracting scurvy.

I have also enclosed some peaches from the Tuesday Garden. The delay in my reply is partially due to the fact that I had to dry them, first, to fit the slices in the envelope.



In this house, I have had good results, starting with the kitchen.

Sometimes feelings come and go without leaving tracks, and sometimes they appear out of nowhere and seize your heart in their claws. I am sorry that I cannot be more helpful on that front – in this life it seems that happiness is an event, and not a state of being. The synapses of my brain are beige and tired.


I think – if the house will let me – it is time to go to the Night Garden again.

I hope I can find something useful there.

***
As always, this is part of the Pen Pal Project. Xantheanmar’s most recent letter from Kiana Moss can be found here, and my masterpost of letters, in chronological order (a very important order to have,) can be found here.

Shoutout to one of many thousands of GIMP tutorials I have consumed over the years, since I now know how to make fog.

Date: 2017-04-04 01:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] medleymisty.livejournal.com
The darkness stares at you with its red red eyes, and then it sniffs.

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