Dear Moirae…
How I wish I could believe in you again, and the gods of my childhood. When Nyx’s primeval dance on the wine-dark sea dwindled into poetry, I lost the knack of graceful surrender to fortune’s currents.
If I still believed, there would be refuge and ritual to turn the Erinyes from my door. Harder when you know no one is listening, even to chastise.
I’m so tired of treading water. Even tireder of striking out for yet another distant and elusive shore, hoping for Elysium but finding Asphodel. Perhaps Akheron flows into Lethe… after all, who would return to mark the path.
Spin on daughter of Night, and tell your sister I’m weary.
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