On a distant shore the faint outline of a statue overlooks the garden. I move closer slowly to read from the secret book of letters.
“We should attempt to examine more closely the patterns of bad faith and attempt a description of them,” I whisper to the jasmine-scented wind, but she is unmoving.
The vibration of the words ripples across the sea in an imperceptible wave and becomes the slight breeze that even now makes the hair on the arms of the Imaginary Sailor stand on end as he wonders if he’ll ever have a map of the Seven Seas. Will he make it to China? The mystery carries the scent of salt.
The eyes of the woman who offers an entreaty (perhaps even whiskey), are glazed with starlight even across timezones, even during the day, when the stars are destroyed by the smudge of quicksilver sun, a thumbprint on a mirror that turns minutes into centuries and makes her immortal, if only as she sweeps the landscape with a fleeting gaze.