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There is Time,

and then there is Timeliness.

And always there is the Story,

with its Unfolding,

and Chapters,

and Small Deaths,

and Small Beginnings.

There is time,

in its usual pace and pattern.

Then there is Time.

Weaving and wobbly.

Spiral and labyrinthine.

Permeable and translucent, really.

Always dripping with

anomalies and aberrations,

always stained with magic,

barely hidden yet rarely noticed.

The question of When

is at the root of all tales.

Even the ones that only we can tell.

The question of Why Now

has only one answer.

Because it is When it must.

Once again upon a Time.

There was a King.

And there was I.

An overlay of possibility.

A sliver of thorn stabbing through the cold.

A knife of light through the mist.

A trick of the Night.

A gift.

A hidden hope.

A truth waiting to be spoken.

A dream of a Dream.

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