The advice I have for myself is the same advice I've always had for myself.  Keep a clear head and a willing heart.  Keep a clear head and a willing heart.  

When I was 14, I learned to tell my first fortunes for myself.  I would always have the same ones, over and over, and I would wonder why.  The same cards again and again as if I was stuck in the same place, unknown to me.  Strength and Sunlight.  Strength and Sunlight.  By Christmas, I had realized I was being warned of something of which I could not yet comprehend.  An event or sequence of events I would need to be warned of again and again.  My first instructor of tarot in another life, was you.  

Was Nicholas.  Of course, I mean.  

After each curiosity of my future would be answered, the feathers would find me.  Falling white at my feet, or gray in the gutter, or black in the lawn.  If I'd believed in bird or angel, I would have considered them greater signs.  

I was so terribly inside-out.  Having awareness with no insight.  Or insight with no awareness.  Understanding things which were of a greater extent than my own experiences, but grasping nothing about myself.  Into the feeling of being backward and lost, I poured knowledge.  I read because....I felt things had happened to me that I had little grasp of.  I would cry sometimes for relationships I hadn't lost, experiences I hadn't had.  So I sought in books those who had to anchor my confused heart to.  

I....smoked cigarettes in my dreams, long before my first had ever disappeared down my throat.  When did I smoke my first cigarette?  I can't remember...here or there?  I remember stealing them and thinking I would only need to get used to them again.  

I spoke in a way to belie many years I didn't have, in concrete ways.  That was back when I...when you what, Evelyn?  Oh, I don't...remember.  We knew each other, once.  Didn't we?

When, Evelyn?  

I don't...know.  But I know this song is about us.  I know I've felt these things.  I know how this hurts.  Or I will, someday.  

I clung close to those people who felt the same sense of...timlessness or endlessness, or whatever touch felt it so close resembled.  

The heavy echo, in someone's words.  The sense of them that is as lost in time as I am, the sense of them that pulls conversations like magnets to a place of memory or blessing.  Have you ever loved anyone because of the fact that they reminded you of something you couldn't quite place?

Evelyn, is it you I remembered?  

Evelyn, do we all get doors to ourselves from another place?  

Evelyn, do you remember that winter?  

Evelyn, have you slept?  

Evelyn, did you miss me like I missed you?

Evelyn, do the cards change?

Evelyn, have we grown up?

Evelyn, what happened to me?