![]() And knowing this, the night still seems a richness, a gauntlet of desires ending in peace, I would still be part of these allurements, and to my arms I would take in the darkness, blessed and renamed by pleasure But the light, The light, my Kitiara, when the sun spangles the rain-gorged sidewalks and the oil from doused lamps rises in the sunstruck water, splintering the light to rainbows! I arise, and though the storm resettles on the city, I think of Sturm, Laurana, and the others, but Sturm the foremost, who can see the sun straight through the fog and cloudrack. You were an attar of orchids in the stemming night, where passion, like a shark having found a bloodstream murders other senses, only taste preserving, buckling into itself, finding the blood its own, a small wound first, but as the shark unravels the belly tatters in the long throat’s tunnel. In absences you grew more beautiful, more poisonous. I have waited past all decision, past the heart of shadows to tell you this. The clouds obscure the city as I write this, delaying thought and sunlight, as the streets hang between day and darkness. Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Kitiara, of all the days these days are locked in dark and waiting, in regret.
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