The blue window was speaking. Sometimes it was a musical whisper. Sometimes the dreams of long dead lions. I had some feathers from a monster. In the monster, a fire had come to life. The fire was a peculiar idea, the seeds of which had been the monster’s teeth. In the feather was a future feature that the blue window found fascinating. You could open the window. Because it’s inside your own eye’s picture of the seeing. You could open the dead lions or the whispers, because I am the ghost of your own memory’s fingertip. The blue window sang silent. Something about a letter from the star that only shone in the delicate dream of the blind child.