I'd been in love with her for years. I never left this suburban town. I didn't go to university. I went to Audrey.

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

Amplified by the still of night, the book opened -- a gust of wind.

You're far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.

Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.