Goth is like shingles; you never really get cured of chickenpox, the virus just lays dormant until your defenses are down.
When did you get so sarcastic, luv?
Before Sister Cecelia gave me that book
Not many seven-year-olds that cynical.
Not often I have conversations with in incorporeal lover.
Oh, it’s more often than you think. More often than you’d like to admit, anyway.
Not much this last couple years. Ish. Or so.
Such definite language you use, dear. Anyway, you needed some time to yourself; to work things out. Yes, I made that one request of you in the middle there, but only because you needed it.
Do I still?
You’ll always need it. You always have. And I’ve always been. Formalising it with ritual was to cement it in your mind.
Ritual is supposed to be for the Theoi as much as mortals.
Usually. There are exceptions, you just have to have a reason to read the footnotes to know them.
So, this mandatory time off?
You know the answer.
Do I?
You were re-born, you needed a fresh start. A period of gestation is required. A period of developing the muscles to hold the head up on your own is required. You don’t send a newborn off to work as an accountant without something in-between for preparation.
You enjoy your riddles.
It’s not a riddle, it’s an analogy —you know that.
You still didn’t answer my question.
I don’t need to. You know the answer. You’re just stalling. It’s unbecomming.
I always say “it’s unbecomming.” People are going to think I’m just talking to myself.
Where do you think you got it from, yes, even when you were seven or eight. Anyway, you don’t have to publish. It’s not the most private discussion in the world, but it’s not like this is something your friends need to know.
But I want them to know.
Get some sleep now, dear boy.