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Description
I'm not sure who you are. You wrote me a note in my dream, scribbled it into my notebook. I'm not sure if I gave you permission. Two columns: in one, a beautiful language that I can't understand; in the other, warm and familiar english. The pages came to life with your practiced, ethereal script, turning a pale green with leaf inlays.

It was an intimate thing. You thanked me - for having known you, for having kept you company for however long we had known each other, which I feel wasn't that long. It was clear you were taken by me, and offered in the privacy of the written word the chance to be a part of your life. From what it said, you live quite a fantastic life. You have siblings, or at least close younger relatives. They're going to be performing in a special play, you wrote, and you'd like it if I came to see it. Implied urgency, but not overt. You have a way with words.

But this play is in a place I've never been, or so you claim, but I think you're right. You said it was in the city of the centaurs. One line, crystal clear, the last thing I was able to grab before consciousness shrouded the rest in mist: "the Centauri cities are gorgeous, sublime. I think you'd rather enjoy it, and so would I."

I feel awful. In the dream we carried on a full conversation after you returned my notebook, laughing and having merriment, but it didn't occur to me that you'd written anything in my private mind. It's okay, I forgive you for it. You left and only then did I look, but the steady rap of a mallet against my door stole from me all the words but a few, scattered, and a wonderful feeling that clings to my heart even now. I treasure it, cherish it, pull it out to dazzle my eye when I can't stand it anymore.

I'm not sure who you are, but it was a kind invitation.

I'd like to take you up on it.

Description
I'm not sure who you are. You wrote me a note in my dream, scribbled it into my notebook. I'm not sure if I gave you permission. Two columns: in one, a beautiful language that I can't understand; in the other, warm and familiar english. The pages came to life with your practiced, ethereal script, turning a pale green with leaf inlays.

It was an intimate thing. You thanked me - for having known you, for having kept you company for however long we had known each other, which I feel wasn't that long. It was clear you were taken by me, and offered in the privacy of the written word the chance to be a part of your life. From what it said, you live quite a fantastic life. You have siblings, or at least close younger relatives. They're going to be performing in a special play, you wrote, and you'd like it if I came to see it. Implied urgency, but not overt. You have a way with words.

But this play is in a place I've never been, or so you claim, but I think you're right. You said it was in the city of the centaurs. One line, crystal clear, the last thing I was able to grab before consciousness shrouded the rest in mist: "the Centauri cities are gorgeous, sublime. I think you'd rather enjoy it, and so would I."

I feel awful. In the dream we carried on a full conversation after you returned my notebook, laughing and having merriment, but it didn't occur to me that you'd written anything in my private mind. It's okay, I forgive you for it. You left and only then did I look, but the steady rap of a mallet against my door stole from me all the words but a few, scattered, and a wonderful feeling that clings to my heart even now. I treasure it, cherish it, pull it out to dazzle my eye when I can't stand it anymore.

I'm not sure who you are, but it was a kind invitation.

I'd like to take you up on it.