My very dear Claire, I already know so much about you, and yet I have never actually seen you. For six months now, I have been passing you, sensing you, hearing you, closing my eyes when I smell you ... [+]
How do immortals recognize each other, you ask? By our palimpsest of scars and wrinkles, every inch of skin marked by the shooting of stars, the spinning of the Earth yielding under similarly marred fingertips. By the taste of our mouths, the dust of fallen empires, dead dinosaur cells, and myriad wines' noble rots embedded in the ridges of our tongues sucked clean at last. By the look in our eyes, a glimmer sharp as the edge of a knife that has cut through tender flesh and ripe strawberries alike. A knife that slices you a homecoming feast.