Monday, August 23, 2010

First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. The coming of Sarah. ... 'Sarah' the name means princess , as in Sarah, the wife of Abraham. She is believed to have been the daughter of a pre-Celtic tribe, called the Hurrians, a semi-nomadic people found throughout the eastern Mediterranean. Fair Sarah she was called. Desired by kings. Coveted by princes, but given in marriage to the first patriarch and thus the spiritual mother of us all. My Sarah is just as comely. She is tall and willowy, with auburn hair and eyes like a renaissance madonna. And in her own way, she too has become a spiritual mother. I found her amidst the rare and enchanted volumes of a tiny, cluttered bookshop. It was called Philadelphia After Dark, as it opened with the gloaming and closed up with the dawn. A place for all those who could not sleep... or did not sleep, at least not during the night. She sat behind an antique, wooden counter, absorbed in a classic tale, when I first went into the shop. The floors were old, softened wood and they creaked and moaned with a century of wear. Narrow. winding aisles lead to forgotten tomes and arcane codexes .A collection of old wall clocks quietly ticked thier way into eternity. I could see a dusting of late autumn snow dance down through the multi-paned shop window. But I only stayed in there a moment or two and quickly retreated back out to the cold, gray cobbles, afraid of what I might do. But I knew her now and she was part of my existence. Fair Sarah. My Sarah. My maiden of the night. And that is how it began.... Please, let me just sit for a while. It all comes rushing back. But I promise to tell you more. But please, just let me rest. I need to be still. I need to count my dreams.

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