When I first came into being, my body was formed of the foam that swirls like pearly mists upon the outer shores of the dreaming sea. It was woven together with trembling petals, intermittent bindings of angels’ feathers, and rainbows dancing over butterflies’ wings. But my soul came to blossom only upon the dawn of endless night — crafted of immortal stars who desired intimate knowledge of all the sensations that would surely consume, like a slow-burning flame, such a creature as I was destined to be.
Sometimes, when the night herself is still and all the mortal world is dead to dreaming, I can feel the symphony of the ones who made me: I can hear the stars themselves, singing.
But — or so I am told — no matter how beautiful my voice, they will not hear me…