And three days later, I find myself hands and knees against the icy ground. And I can feel the snow landing softly on my back, melting, and falling bright red onto the ground.

Or am I still in my room? I cannot tell. If I concentrate, I can make out the floor's hardwood pattern -- I do not know which is real -- I do not remember either one.

I think I was with her, just this moment -- or I was thinking of her. I was in the street, in an alleyway. I was saying something silly, like 'I still have your clothes and weapon.'

"I do not need them, dear, I am dead," she laughed. Then she held my face in her large hands. With tears in her eyes, she said, "But I forgive you."

... and her hands and lips became ice cold. Became the snow -- the cold blood-soaked snow.

...and I am so sorry.

The tall Princess fell forward, her knees and palms making a dull thud against the hard African soil. Lurching and heaving, she puked green-yellow bile onto the parched, cracked ground.

"In three days," she said, without looking up, "you will die in the snow."
"Three days after that, you will kill me."
"After another three days, I will forgive you."
"And three days after that, you will apologize."

The Princess then stood up, wiped her mouth and began walking away, leaving me holding her spear and clothing.

left standing at the door of the tower

as a generation burns bright meteors into the sun
that i should be left standing at the door of the tower

but someone has to tell the story
and i have had my turn at the fairy queen

when i look out my window
it is not rage i see
from the passing of the light

the dry, nervous calamus summer
dissolving with each chilled raindrop

the frantic dance of life
yielding to the steady soft beat
whispering 'sleep'.