Now this is going to get a little bit narrator-y, as if that weren't already the case, so much is happening that it has to be explained or we will just lose everyone, and if we lose everyone, then the basic principles of solid dramatic form might not be in place, and that would create mistrust and suspicion, when we all know that we really all know exactly what we're doing here.

It's not as complex as it seems, or if it seems simple, then it's much more complex than that.

He's on a raft.  She's on a raft.  They're not the same raft.

What is she doing on the raft?  We're not showing it, because we'll have to find out later, and it might be surprising.  There should be centaurs and pomegranate wine (everyone drinks it here, or eats the seeds, because we've all been resigned to being in between places, stuck between one season and another, stuck between one unsafe place and another.  There are mad faeries and a wake for the recently dead, and the ones who are missing, and it might be too much to mention that she is missing him.  But, oh, she misses him, and sees his words coming up through the waves, and she sees his face in the stars when she is contemplating her place in things.  It's romantic, and very unsure, and probably romantic because it is so unsure.  We all hold onto things that we long for when we don't know where we are, and sometimes that's the best way to find out what we really miss.  Stuck somewhere in between spaces, we realize our heart's desire.

He, meanwhile, is seeing her face in the stars when he is contemplating his place in things, and this is important insofaras what happened to the story before.  In the middle of the ocean, he conjured her, remembered her from the land of the dead, and brought her back to life in his desire to speak with her.

He just wants to talk to her.

And she just wants to talk to him.

But somewhere in that space of dreaming old phantoms back, she began to shift, and it is becoming very apparent to him that she is not that other or another other, but something else entirely, something her entirely, and he doesn't know who she is.  And it would have been something else entirely if he let her live in his realm of projection, but.

This is where everything started to turn.  When he was looking at her face projected in the stars, he saw her projection and began to project all of his desires into that.  And somewhere in there, she started to become real.  While he was distracting himself from the pains of the day, while he was starting to become aware that it was the color in her face that triggered an immediate response, a kind of restless relentless rest, he started to associate her colors with the colors around him, and that was the moment that his time on the raft with the dead men started to turn into color, from various shades of gray.  There's something about an obsession that can bring out the colors in the rest of the waking-dreaming world, because the one who is forlorn is looking for the colors of the one who is not there, and the one who is not there is making the world a place of color, because the world is where he knows he might find her.

His mind is giving himself something to look for, one could say, and that might be reasonable.  But there are very likely other forces at work here that have nothing to do with his mind, except notice that it is become very receptive to projections, and the projections that start to come

Are much too lucid to speak of here, and besides, they are interrupted because the father has just fallen again, and this reminds him that this is, this certainly is, fall.  And even though he is there in his body, and even though this is about the father, no one could possibly expect him to be very focused, just as she is not entirely focused on the centaurs, because that Brass Goddess is very busy making images in the sky to keep them moving forward.  Because even though this is a story about the dead, it is also and always already a love story.


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