Though I was born on the fifth day of December during the course of typical Autumn night, I suspect my life does not begin to take shape until much later, to be exact, two decades later.

I did not have the typical childhood growing up. But then again, who does? I suspect only a select few are privy to the mediocre pleasantness of normalcy. Alas, as I have said, it simply was not for me.

When I was four years and sixteen years old, to me was born a sister – un cherubino tedesco – and I say to me for she was a result of incesssant petitions. She was to become a comrade in arms, wending alongside, as we traversed empty fields that opened to the empty skies and gave way to obscure patches of forest that would come alive in our imaginations; here the perfunctory rituals of pagans were reenacted diligently and faithfully, connecting a past lost in millennia with a present devoid of rustic civility. Only here was time of then transformed into time of now, without the insolent tyranny of that other superstition.

But after countless imaginary battles, we parted ways. Torn from the same womb prematurely at the seventh month and born under the auspice of the Archer, we were too much alike renouncing to each other certain sets of attributes that we cherished in ourselves the least. I rendered unto her the levity of the sun, with its diadem of rays, and unto me she bestowed the sublimity of the moon.

The quiet tranquillity that adorns the life of a provincial child, was torn asunder. I was to partake in that condition that characterizes man historically and eternally: migration. The choices were limited