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Once upon a time, I had a friend. Not the sort you'd expect a woman like me to have, much less the frightened, troubled child I was, to have. He was so flayed and raw, back then. Even in those days I could tell how much it hurt just to reach out and take my hand, and he did it because he had to be my hero. All the powers that be know what would have become of me if he'd not grabbed me out of that horrible place. Nowadays, my eyes be crystal, my heart always an even match for my observational logic. Nothing personally relevant escapes my attention, and I owe that to my friend, for the lessons that bled upon me.
We were stained, scarred survivors, sharing our stories and pernacious memories upon a stage no one would see, or could see. To others we often seemed to speak our own special language, that peculiar verse we would both deem Mawkish. It was never a purposeful secret, this tongue, but the meanings and depths only washed around and over the two of us. We were set apart, and glad for it, grateful and even arrogant in what we knew, what we saw without even looking.
I was nearing the end of my great adventure, on that day, when the Mawkish came out of the telephone, a summons home. I answered without thought, without conditions or even choice. A thousand miles and three years gone, and I sat at his side, this time, me reaching out for him, trying to make it me that would save his life. And in the end I could only listen, hold on, and blunt his pain with my voice. Those weeks brought us even closer, us twins of torture and misunderstandings. And for all we did to love, all we did to talk just a while longer, he died, leaving me reading between the lines alone. My life alone is gifted, bright, but now without its measure. All that I am I owe to my friend, and not one waking moment goes by without me hearing his soft voice, knowing that he would have something to say, but cursed by not knowing just what that would be.
I am the only one fluent in Mawkish, and so I narrate this in my own tongue. For I know, that no matter who I know or shall know, there will never be another that I love so much, or will love me and know the depths of me.
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Munin
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Ah, a place to put intimate details about my inner workings where anyone can read them, and most likely won't.
Let's get organized. Bits of fiction will be under Epic, verse under Edda, other diatribe will be found under Meandering Mores. Chronological labels will be added as needed.
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