I Do Not Like Sitting Idly By

The Funeral Is A Quiet One, Despite The Number Of Mourners Present. There Are No Sobs Or Flailing Handkerchiefs. There Is A Smattering Of Color Amongst The Sea Of Traditional Black. Even The Light Rain Cannot Push It Down Into The Realms Of Despair. It Rests Instead In A Space Of Thoughtful Melancholy.

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

I Didn't Know Your Identity, But I Had An Impression Of Who My Opponent Was, Being Surrounded By Things You Made.

The Truest Tales Require Time And Familiarity To Become What They Are.

This Is, In Part, Why There Is Less Magic In The World Today. Magic Is Secret And Secrets Are Magic, After All, And Years Upon Years Of Teaching And Sharing Magic And Worse. Writing It Down In Fancy Books That Get All Dusty With Age Has Lessened It, Removed Its Power Bit By Bit.