Master,

Today I travelled in the dream world as two couples and a lady friend. We rode on a bumpy bus, singing merrily to songs I’d never heard of—except that friend. I asked her why she hadn’t sung with us and she said she didn’t know the lyrics. I knew that wasn’t true. They were the sort everyone knows, like “Kumbaya” or “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”.

At the hotel, she locked herself in the bathroom. Through the thin door I could hear her sobs. When she came out I tried to comfort her. I knew what the problem was. She felt more alone travelling with two happy couples than she would have felt with no one at all. I began making all of our beds and set a pot of water boiling for pasta. I was going to make food for everyone.

Then I found myself back in Italy, answering a call. It was from my archetypal partner, asking when I was coming home. I remembered the pasta I had set cooking and forgotten. He said never mind that— someone had ordered food and had it delivered to our hotel. That I was to come and see what it was. Excitement built as I hurried back home because I loved that sort of surprise. It was going to be better than the pasta I had tried to make for sure.

It was not a strange dream, if I really think about it. I had wondered aloud last night why we have to feel awful at times, and why that would be considered a fair measure against those whose lives blow like a gentle breeze. The answer was simple: so that I know what loneliness feels like, and will be able to recognise it in someone else. That was a test of sorts. Could I empathise with someone else and what actions would I take? In the dream, I took care of her and everyone else—or at least tried to—by tidying up and cooking and when I failed at the latter task, (because I was catapulted back to Italy), someone else stepped in and sent food to benefit everyone including me.

Kindness needs a canvas. Sorrow is apprenticeship.

I hope you are well.

Master,

I want my teeth cleaned with a spray from your high-powered jet. I want to be skewered by your length and flipped occasionally for even cooking in your heat. I want to lose my way in your jungle of chest hair. I am rotisserie chicken for a tiger.

I like to fuck in submission, then congratulate you for your mediocre sense of self-preservation. You now know that I am quite mad. Like a Targaryen.

A cup of tea from an air-conditioned uppity coffee shop could fix me right up; one could dream.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit: one moment I’m liberating people; the next, I’m burning down cities because I’ve had enough of Cersei’s machinations.

The amount of sleep I’ve had has been dwindling these past few days. Now I am Daenerys with a dragon. Tomorrow, I might be just dragon.

You do not yet know that I had dreamnt about our son, though I’d be often times tempted to leave you behind. Gabriel. His name is Gabriel. Or would have been.

“Nobody joins a cult. They join a good thing, and then they’ve got a problem.”

I can’t remember which book I took this from. It’s meant to be sarcastic and funny, but it does point to how challenging it is to see the shape of things from the inside. Perhaps that’s why it took me days to realise the piercing quality of my words to you, until I stepped a few paces away and looked again.

I don’t know if it was something I dreamt, but this morning I woke with your tune reverberating in my head, as though it were being played from a phone—a ringtone I had set specially for you. You won’t get to hear it, of course. It only plays for me when you call. I won’t get to hear it play, of course, you never call. It’s the warmth of a sunrise bringing relief to skin grazed by icy wind—blockish, traumatic.

The tune is uplifting and romantic, like a crystal violin plunging through a long stint in darkness and bitter cold with prismatic first light. It plays in my head again and again, nudging me from sleep, epiphanic, with a recollection of when my back was turned from melancholy and towards a crisp spring morning, expectant of the first growth spurt and a kiss. It is the revitaliser in green tea—lemony, grassy, sweet. It’s the warmth in your arms as a second sunrise.

I can’t go back to sleep now so I’m having breakfast seated on the heated floor. There’s Greek yoghurt, cherries and a thermos of freshly-brewed Sakura green tea. That will have to do for now.

Until the next sunrise,

Your cosmic mate

Master,

Last night I had a dream of you. I’ve had several over the last few weeks that weren’t much to write about—one was a continuation of the underwater home dream in which the water has finally receded—but last night’s was hilarious.

My sister and mother walked into my new apartment, all excited about my upcoming solemnisation at City Hall. One suggested I put on a tiara, another something for my nails. I then remembered that, as a joke, I had registered for our civil wedding many moons ago and had forgotten to cancel it. You were aware of this, though I wasn’t sure you remembered that today was the day.

As I couldn’t reach you by phone, I left you a voice message saying that I’d have it cancelled, and if I couldn’t, I would attend the party anyway.

What party, you ask?

Well, it was a party the government throws for newly wedded couples, for free, to encourage “coupling”. They had given us a house as the venue and paid for the catering, party decorations, etc.

I was there with my family—and a 33-year-old French dude who was purportedly a family friend—I don’t know said dude in real life. We spent a great deal of time conversing and bonding in French; so close were we that our body language betrayed how we really felt. It looked like I was cosying up to the man when I felt the metaphorical heat of an angry stare.

It was you.

I didn’t expect you to come, let alone be that incensed. Indeed, you were so volcanic that you threw up. Apologising, I accompanied you to the public bath so you could clean up, assuring you that I’d tell the guy to go away.

In the bathroom, some people were waiting to give you a massage, like in a Turkish hammam. I threatened to cause grievous hurt if you came to any harm, before leaving you in their care. You were doubtful about the whole thing but went in anyway, putting trust in people who only meant to make you feel better.

That’s it. I hope you woke up refreshed and re-engineered, sturdy in the grounding of my unwavering affection for you.

All my love,

Your soulmate

Master,

The 30th day of Sagittarius brings us a note of caution amid our celebrations. The end of the year is the finest time for reflection: enumerating our favours from the past few months and planning obliquely for the twelve ahead. By the end of the first new quarter, many of us will have forgotten our resolutions and will simply be winging the rest. Like all other years, many returns will be unexpected—some good, some traumatic—but all tales shared around a marshmallow-roasting bonfire bring feelings of warmth, mutual growth and chumminess.

In the dream world, some children came to their grandparents asking for drinks to take to a party. The children wanted an adult-free gathering, while the grandparents assumed the request was made on behalf of the adults. Unknowingly, they were given unlabelled boxes of juice containing a significant amount of alcohol. Luckily, the children knew better than to consume drinks that tasted and smelled odd. The adults, deprived of their liquid courage, behaved only marginally better. In that regard, we could say the children were raised well. They had a fabulous, giggly time with nothing more than the free use of their imaginations. Nobody should have to grow up building steely, artificial barriers as directed.

We are reminded to take heed—to remember a time before we lost our innocence and became insufferable; to inform ourselves properly before acting in a state of celebrated exhaustion. Like: please end the year properly this time. Parties only feel like parties with like-minded individuals. Introverts need shelter from parties, not more invitations. As for me, you know I would rather be snug in your arms.

This is my final letter for Sagittarius, and 2025. I hope each of my letters was—and will be—read like a birthday present, as was the intention. Until my next letter in the new year, many happy returns for the upcoming holidays.

May the long-awaited promises of 2025 arrive with a congratulatory note before the end: that we be brought closer together in the spirit of humanity and love; that we grow wiser through our experiences, our dreams, and our books; that we task the world with celebrating differences and coming together in friendship; that we be judicious in distinguishing true friends from foes, and astute in ensuring there is more good than harm in our footsteps; that we have the courage and strength to maintain peace; that we be gifted generosity, mercy, and compassion more often than called upon to practise them; that we receive blessings and glad tidings from where we least expect them; that we never act unfairly, unjustly, or carelessly—even towards ourselves; that promises made to us, and by us, be honoured, especially where reliance upon them has altered behaviour and expectation; and that the surrender of obsessive control proves to be the best thing we could have done.

As always, with love and affection, until such time as the universe brings us together,

Your eternal mate