[ how dare he, she thinks at first. this man leaves her a message to start her morning with, and she remembers the warmth of the sun on her skin. balmy summer air and cool green grass. a breeze that glides across with such a sweet gentleness, it's painful. those days are gone; this is not the slave youth who had carried her to a place where she could be... "safe." and this is not the lord who cut into her flesh for banquets. in many ways, listening to this, she feels it is unkind of her to think of those days in the makeshift graveyard, from when her nails had mud and death caked beneath them from ardent prayer and hard work. it is certainly unkind to herself; this sweetness he had given her was a double edged sword, and it would forever be lodged in her side.

of that she was sure.

and yet, she thinks of a gentle, golden sea, with a clear blue sky overhead. that warmth and this warmth co-exist, in some say.

morgana is not a kind person, in her opinion. if she were, would she had done what she had? would a kind, thoughtful girl have done all that, and let it be for nothing? this is the man who shackled her emotionally and physically in more than one life, who destroyed that which she loved more than once. (first himself, then her rose garden, then once again: himself.)

and yet... his voice comes from the smartwatch like a warm rush of water.

she wants to respond in text. thinks it is smarter to. her voice might waver through a recording. ]

Good morning to you, as well. Hearing your voice first thing in the morning reminded me of the unpleasant sensation of a stomach illness.

[ they're just butterflies, you know. ]

I have no interest in writing, but I suppose if you desire it, I can. However, I...

[ ... ]

Would need an editor.

[ so, together: they can make up for that last letter xxxxxxxx wrote jacopo bearzatti, perhaps. ]