#1661

I don’t feel worthy of much right now; of looking into The Lady’s amber eyes, of reading and interpreting the cards, of channeling the dark gods. I wonder what any of them would want with me, why they would bother to answer my summons or pleading. I’ve nothing to offer lords and princes, after all, and even a mother can tire of her child’s fumbling antics. And fumbling I must certainly seem, confused and desperate as I am. The writing I do produce must look to them all like marker scribblings on paper, shapes you could maybe make out as people and a house with curly smoke if you squint and turn it sideways. Hardly something worthy of putting up on the cosmic fridge. So what do I do? Do I avert my eyes, wrap up the cards, apologize profusely and crawl back into bed? At what point is trying no longer good enough?

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