Your image is drawn in the veil of incense smoke, in the lifeline on my hand stretching towards faded chains. You are an art. Not a single moment or a flicker in the artists eye, captured. No. You are rerun, rehearsed, rewritten. Turned from leaf to leaf, you are chapters torn messily from a spine; spills of ink that blotch whole scenes; illustrations reworked and restored. And I watch as she emerges - radiant, pink in the flesh, crowned in silver curls - a faded voice; an out-stretched hand; a touchable dream.