I Wished For Her,” He

It's Too Late. It Was Too Late By The Time I Arrived In London To Turn Your Notebook Into A Dove; There Were Too Many People Already Involved. Anything Either Of Us Does Has An Effect On Everyone Here, On Every Patron Who Walks Through Those Gates. Hundreds If Not Thousands Of People. All Flies In A Spiderweb That Was Spun When I Was Six Years Old And Now I Can Barely Move For Fear Of Losing Someone Else.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

Where Do You Get Your Ideas? People Ask. Sometimes They’re At The Bottoms Of Cups Of Tea. Sometimes They’re Lurking In My Shower. Sometimes They’re Waiting Patiently In Glass Cases In Museums.

The Cloud Maze. “ An Excursion In Dimension A Climb Though The Firmament; There Is No Beginning There Is No End Enter Where You Please Leave When You Wish Have No Fear Of Falling

People Don’t Pay Much Attention To Anything Unless You Give Them Reason To