What happened once. . . . will happen again.
You have to believe. I am the narrator. I’m asking you, as a personal favor, to believe. . . that what happened once, will happen again.
There was sand, and there was a breeze. A woman stood, looking upwards towards a hidden moon. She spoke with confidence and belief. It was enough to make Grin believe.
In the shadow of the unlit city, Grin listened to the breeze, the woman’s strong syllables, the sand whispering. He heard the tomorrow in the yesterday. He wondered what time really was. He asked me, in a handwritten letter, to tell him what I thought.
I sent him an e-mail. I included a track entitled “All Music is the Same” by a band called Crownery. I wrote that time, if we take this track at face value, is mostly an illusion. At the core of that illusion, though, we might find a sliver of something true.
Time, a word that, if we mull over its meaning, must terrify and exhilirate. Time, the passage and the becoming. Time, the in-between what was and what will be, the chord that runs through all measures, the thrumb which connects beginning to end, the hovering treble which asks us all to believe that—whatever our presuppositions may be—there is a real meaning behind the illusion.
Grin wrote back, in his own hand, that he wept. I, the narrator of his story, think it’s important to let you know that Grin doesn’t weep over nothing.
