Some day, Sarah, you and I shall meet.

It will be in a place where peace reigns absolute, with a gentle aroma that unconditionally rules all. It will be in a place of lucent amber and citrine. Where Felix Terrett does not rule your sphere of compassion—nor mine indeed—but shares the throne of affection with one’s sororal self—we will meet.

We will meet when the sky is soft with rose and magnolia, and when time is moulded about the contoured form of our reunion. We will meet when all is florid and sanguine. When the minute tells of significance, when the purpose of suffering ripens into visible maturity—we will meet.

We will meet in repose and quietude, but exultant in nimble raillery and vivid rapture. Bliss will be almost prayerful in its splendour, yet elation kindled ablaze. And every atom will chorus and sing to our sistership.

You want sympathy, company and concord; I want absurdity, quarrel and pardon. You want a lifelong confidante. I want my sister.

—Not Dreamland, you tell me. Well, someday there will be Dreamland—and we, the both of us, will be there. I want my sister.

And some day I’m going to meet her.

The End

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