Then came the creation of an other, a wanderer. She is lonely sometimes, cast adrift so to speak. An adventurer with earth block feet or perhaps a rooted stick, she can feel a homeland in exile, or vice versa. She attempts an analytical clear-sightedness and records the flora found, splitting growth and death into pages of minutes and seconds. She knows the delay between sight and seeing which allows imagination to play. She fails and fails again. And one evening, walking under the stars (Ursa Minor) and the moon west to the twilight lands, her sight fails and everywhere she looks there is the same, repeating figure. She follows unending spoors, tracks and traces, retracing a long path into the future.
Her fiction combines anticipation and retrospect. When imagining both the other and the future, her acts of imagination and projection pick up and place down relentlessly, transferring what might have been to what might be and threatening generally to disorder time, threatening her very Self.
In belief and disbelief, the wanderer knows that memory fails, that she can not have the gift of perfect recall.