The speaking of names in important places is important. Willow did not come to the village, but we spoke her name and so she was there. That final death the last time your name is spoken and once again that realisation that one always knows the first time one does a thing, but rarely the last. The last goodbye when one only means it to last a little time and only later come to know that it will last forever.
How much of that road still to travel? How many miles? And is there promise of bed when I arrive, and if there is that promise, what are promises? Is the silver trumpet braying?
posted by Weasel @ 7:12 PM
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