At first, Vince's reaction to the return letter was irritation. Unbridled and entirely aloof. It came in and was crumpled, tossed aside, forgotten and the creature shooed quite ferociously out the window again with a huff. What pretentious dribble... honestly. But, as lonely days and nights turned colder, the letter - with it's easy lilt tickling some more romantic, academic side of Vince - prompted him to think on it more and more often. A week passed and eventually he resigned to satiate his curiosity. Purely for boredom sake. It wasn't like the dumb owl had stopped coming by as it was anyway.

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S.D.

Nimue. Strange name for a creature of feathers with no inclination as to water or lakes. Do you fancy that medieval poppycock? I'd say the old bat Merlin might fit better, but I digress.

Your romanticism as to an owl's assumed perception while flying strikes a fanciful chord. Beautiful in its description, but likely far from the truth. Would not instead a senile bird be rather paranoid, feeling the closing in of darkness around, not quite able to see or hear or sense the way they once might? Every scrape of mouse nails on the ground a temptation to hunger, the caw of another creature threatening to its territory or status?

Take it from someone who has recently shared a delusional headspace; senility is not preferable in itself to death, swift and true.

V.I.

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