Quoted By:
Moririn, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Mo-ree-reen: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Mo. Ree. Reen.
She was Mori, plain Mori, in the morning, standing five feet six in one sock. She was Calli in slacks. She was Calliope at Cover Corp. She was Mori Calliope on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Moririn.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Moririn at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial reaper. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Moririn debuted as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
