Upon the Twelfth Night of a Fortnight...

And, here comes Leopold with a slip of paper in his hand.

“Lay waste to that which you wish to retain, my good man, and replay within your mind that which you wish to disremember.”

His eyes widened, white and eerily, at the word “disremember.”

“There is a subtle wind blowing, incontestably, but yours, I fear, is a cyclic wind of reminiscence and dread. What say you?”

I could say nothing. Speechless, I stood and considered his apparition until, as always, he dispersed at the oncoming thought of something, someplace grander and serene.

The slip of paper remained were he stood. I bent and plucked it from the fibers of the entryway’s rug: “Croatoan”