biscuit

I woke this morning with my face on a twice-baked biscuit. He must have gone before dawn, leaving them beside me. Too close. The day is clear and bright, thin whisps of cloud high above me. A day to move on into the hills. Last night before I slept I resolved to do so, get away from the compelling, befuddling lake. I need to see more of the hills, to take what I gained from my questions and relate it to the land. Up high perhaps my mind will be clearer - a test too then - to see if this lady of his is real, if her powers are bound to water. Mayhap I will seek her out, his odd lady-love. I doubt she exists. He bade me believe in the unseen, not in the seen and known, telling me that the sky is green in the far north at night over the snow, that me not seeing it does not make it untrue. Perhaps - tho' this lady of his... who sees her? If I must believe in her then must I also believe that the mugwuf really lived under my sister's bed when we were children? However, I must remain open-minded. He deserves that of me, and more in truth, his presence buying me back into being after the horror of the day.