Re: In With the Fortune Teller
Of course, the author knew dreams were not entirely sensical. Nor were they entirely nonsensical. There were meanings here, though he could not yet parse them. The webs, the mise en abyme recursion of a mind within a mind within a mind, a dream within a dream within a dream, a delicate triptych -- metaphors he wondered at stretching most enthusiastically -- were considered with utmost seriousness. The man behind the desk tasted the resin of lampblack on his tongue as he dipped his pen there, wetting it, before he wrote:
His kindness sprung forth the smile upon his lips, as reflection of the woman's, a boundless empathy he had possessed all his life. He did wonder Silk and strands, gold, as if plucked from the head of Athena, glittered in the corners of that room, as the crystal did beneath candle and wick.
"I trust I am in yours," answered our protagonist, considering the lack of incense. His elbow slid upon his coin and impoliteness seized him as he reached with fingers inked for the shattered crystal near the arctic Ariadne, she who led Theseus in and out of the labyrinth, she with the our protagonist would forgive if she slipped, if she but asked.