In times, as ruffled skirt floating in the shimmering pond, blank pages as days and avalanches of letters, the Divine Erato stares out, her stool of wood, her corner barren and void, she breathes the filtered air through the bare limbs and fallen leaves, her dance scatters carefully laid dust and debris, and havoc visits once again upon our eyes that she had once so gently laid to sleep, and if she were to fall from above, she floats as a feather, the Divine Erato is the setting and rising sun over the river bend, failing to see her there, fear not, the veil of dreams and impossible thought will lead your way...
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