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The world knows the future better than it knows the past; I know all that is and will come to be and there is no room for anything else.

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But when it is winter and the snow gently brushes against my window, I retreat to the warm depths of my memories, shuffle through my collections covered in dust through disuse and forgetfulness, and think of they who thought otherwise.

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Gently, as though it were a tangible thing, I pass my fingers over his heart, watching it tremble-- as though it were something that can be broken -- and smile, because only I know it can be.

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The whispers, soft rustles like silk on silk, that ghost over my skin say many things that are inconsequential, and even if his voice is among them, I play ignorance, smile, and pretend to not have heard.

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Because what I do best, above all else, is pretending.

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I can, if I try hard enough, hear someone calling my name, drawing my spirit, and curling around in an effort to take it and break it. But it will fail, just like all the others. I am possessed by no one, and no one has had the will or control to try.

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Letapos;s play a game of taming the untame-able.

....

It is the wild animal that, when tamed, still gives the risk of destruction that makes it so tempting.

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