Prose Fragments


It was half-past Teatime when Lady Butterflyweaver received a Postcard from another Time. Realizing that she was nigh on a Century late, she put down her Teacup with infinite grace, tied the Ribbon of her best traveling Bonnet underneath her chin and removed herself from the tedious constraints of Mere Mortality through the little Door which had opened just to the right of the sonorous old Grandfather clock which had stopped chiming precisely a Century before. When her Neighbors came calling, as they did every Thursday at half-past five, the House of Dreams was silent within yet from Memory’s Depths emerged fine Threads of an arcane Melody which wove itself into brilliant Starlight in their Minds.


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