The voice has relented its agitation and now comes softly, soothingly. I have grown to welcome it. I could even go so far as to say I anticipate it and enjoy it, as one enjoys receiving a letter from a long-lost friend.
Now the voice seems to be all in English, or perhaps I no longer need differentiate the English and the Welsh. Interestingly, I cannot discern whether it is a voice at all, or perhaps a mere feeling. Even as I write this I sense it saying, “Only a little while, our brother, and we come together again.”
Once more I retrieved my box of illusions and I have been able to perform flawlessly each and every one of them without the least bit of practicing. I have even caused the apparatuses do things far beyond their original designs. After exhausting the possibilities—or impossibilities— of the old tricks, I have progressed to picking up common items around the house and creating some illusion around them. For example, a newspaper and scissors lend themselves to a cut-and-restored-paper trick, and a simple pencil and white paper can be made to produce automatic writing. Any items that strike my fancy become my new set of magician’s paraphernalia.
My original box of tricks, however, means little to me now, as I no longer require such artificial contrivances—I see magick everywhere, and I avail myself of it as I please. My metamorphosis, my awakening seems to have had its roots in a certain book I read last summer, but I dare not tell thee its title lest thou also fall under its magick. If thou hast an account with goodreads, ye may temp fate and risk unraveling the mystery thyself. Whereas I have endeavoured in vain to remove said tome from my book list, in that sense I shall not be party to thy demise, and I implore thee not to seek out these writings—resist while ye are able. I’ve said too much and too little.
