concept: creation costs the artist

Friend of my heart,
(so she always called her eldest sister) (it’s a long story, that, and outside our sphere)

Friend of my heart,

I have something strange to tell you.  A man came up to me.  Never saw him before.  He did not say his name, or mine, or anything along those lines.  Not a very polite man.

He wanted a story.

And he knew what that means.  He said as much, maybe not in so many words, but as much as said.  Heartsblood.

I offered him a story.

One of the old ones.  Those barely give me a twinge any more.  I’ve gotten used to that little bit, and if it’s not as painless as dreaming, it is almost.