Circles and Circles and Circles Again...
Clotho was swimming in her own primordial psychic juices, wrapped up in her own mental technicolor dreamcoat. Violet eyes aglow with creative chaos, she hopscotched across the Egyptian quarter, leaving hieroglyphs drawn in flora to mark her path. She danced through the Celtic quarter, quiet these days, though patches of four-leaf clovers and shamrocks marked her passage there. In the Norse area, the glorious flowers of the fjords, vivid in hue from all the sunlight, growing tall and slender, were left in queer patterns and over doorsteps. But ultimately, and unwittingly, she wound up at the Greek quarter, at home.
Every footstep was a dance, a twirl, a foot closer to that which drew her, that which so much of her centered around. The sense of the object of her affection and her best friend filled her as she drew closer, and she smiled. It occurred to her that it might be rude to interrupt, so she knocked, eyes lit up with excitement and feverish joie de vivre.
Every footstep was a dance, a twirl, a foot closer to that which drew her, that which so much of her centered around. The sense of the object of her affection and her best friend filled her as she drew closer, and she smiled. It occurred to her that it might be rude to interrupt, so she knocked, eyes lit up with excitement and feverish joie de vivre.