Sunday eve, game began and life in the city died, energy and spirit drawn and lost to gamed distraction. City’s life tuned out, hers tuned in through the hours of aloneness.
In home, she went to table in bring of journal and a pen. Alone, at rest, she went within—into histories and distant dreams—in searching for a story. Finding story neither in past, nor in futured dream, she returned into the present. Attuned in her alone, she found nearer vision-see.
Quieted, she focused. She wrote story as it came: a little better, a little cleaner, truer in capture than the last.
She was learning the spirit—magic—to serve as medium for stories wanted told.
After write, she remained in rest under fall of suspended lights alight in many levels. In centerpiece of table before, she lit candles in varied heights—smoke-take burn becoming clean that glowed in cast from different planes, overlapped dimensions of illumination and dance-gleam over romance walls.
She thought of Wonder. She thought of magic—art capture of an essence.
She was learning the magic, learning herself, to commune expression of each in the practice of her art.
City was dead, but she was alive: illumed on many planes.