What happens when she can’t write? When even words, her very best friends and the marchers who never break ranks, when they won’t come? Then, she falls into the most indulgent contemplation, the most abstract romanticism, where Gustav Klimt and all the Romantics resided.
She remembers contemplating fate once, imagining that fate (grand destiny) must play itself out, and if it does not, that all the clocks in all the world must simply come to a stop and time will start to go backward, for minutes, then years, then eras, finally eons, until the moment is discovered when fate went off it’s rails. And then, fate corrects itself, lifting itself back onto the treads, and time resumes. All is right with the world again.
Every moment since she was born, every step, has led her to this place. And those around her, to their places. Where they converge, into fire and into brilliant light and into an understanding that only the very fortunate ever get to glimpse, in their one life, this one. She is thankful she gets to see it.