It was a creature of darkling fires and flashes of silver. It had no outline that we could see, but worse if didn’t have a clear tense: sometimes it was present, at others past, at others again future. He were bewildered, re-wilded. It hung, or sat, or strode over what was perhaps a chasm, or possibly a fault in the universal fabric. ‘Past imperfect’, Bruna joked, but it was true, and the creature was all imperfection. ‘Counterpoint to the narcissistic ego-ideal’, suggested Fabor, but when I looked at him he seemed engulfed in flame, or perhaps he was standing on a pool of clear silver water, over which the night-hawks flapped and crowed. In the depths were flashes of ruby; striations of red …

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