I've had that piece of paper for something like fifteen or twenty years now. It's survived a couple moves of the family home, a move to college, a move halfway around the world to grad school, and a hop across the Atlantic.

So, there's this piece of paper lying in wait. On it, there's a poem. Or a song. (But not the title of the book I got it from, or the author or the book, so if anyone knows, please tell me.) One day, I wander home from university to find a Duncanmuse (which I don't have and don't want; a Methosmuse is more than enough work thankyouverymuch) standing in my attic room, holding out this piece of paper and demanding I sit down and write right now, tarsh.

I didn't want to. I told him to get lost. He waved the piece of paper in my face. Out of reflex, I read it.

My mistake.

Omyara: you come whirling patterns in my mind.
You call through my dreams
With echoes that run
Like my footsteps that come far behind you
As through the curving passages of time
I chase to find you: Omyara.
Omyara I run through the maze of colours
And the intermingling shapes of weird design
For you....
Something even music can't define,
Some vague translucent shadow in my mind.
I run through metal roads
And through the curving passages of time.
Omyara: take me in;
Let me sink into the darkness that is you.
I have run, I have run, for so long I have run
Through the curving passages of time.
And when I found you, Omyara, you were gone.
Omyara, Omyara, you were gone

Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy. Still, a lot of frustrations later, the story was more or less tentatively complete. It's stayed that way ever since. Drove me crazy while I was writing it, pulled on practically every insecurity as a writer that I have (and there's an awful lot of those), but, in the end, I'm glad I wrote it. Even if I still don't want that Duncanmuse....

So, back to the story.

Or if you prefer, back to my storypage.

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