Greetings, fair one. Here in Verona Beach, Crowley and I lounge in the heat of midsummer, with nightly dreams of your arrival. Although we don't know the exact times yet, my blood feels the stars themselves sing of your imminent arrival. Crowley says you'll be flying to arrive here, and I'm not one to disdain the occasional broomstick, but I don't think even the highest-calibur witches ever truly mastered long-distance air travel. Teleportation is far more practical an investment, I'm sure you'd agree. Perhaps you can explain when I see you.
Time is fickle. Cruel, even. When I am deep into my studies of the arts, it flows as if it flees from me, the hours falling away like sand through my fingers. And yet it barely moves at all as I await your arrival, every heartbeat counting the long, lingering seconds, putting me in stasis no matter how I writhe.
Our time apart has already been far too long. How am I to wait any longer?
I suppose the common tactic to make time cooperate is to distract oneself, to untether the mind and let it flow freely through ideas and idle chatter. Thus did "media" and "videos" become popular. So, here's one that Crowley pointed me to recently. He enjoys bobbing his head to the beat. Any beat, really.
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