( when Dawn cracked The Sky )
while some may choose to wander within this endeavor without having even the simple notion of page numbers as guideposts, there will surely be others who might find themselves wondering as to the source of its seemingly endless content . . . and in that realm, perhaps, a light needs to be cast . . .
as referenced to in a myriad of ways throughout, the story came into my consciousness by way of my heart, when and where each and every word found its resting place via a single and stunningly simple mechanism, called an echo . . .
and through its still unbroken resonance, brought forth within all the grand and glorious music of my time, composed and produced by artists long past and long present, who all crafted a tapestry of sound so significant in its splendor as to challenge the very breath of Angels, heralding what could only be called a New Age, and whose gifts have been touched by no less than the hand of God, as I was then touched, by the perfection of Harmony . . . within whose whispers came an extraordinary tale, wrapped quietly within the wings of doves, and delivered to my heart, inside the waves that now present themselves, as echoes, upon the sands of your own tide-worn shore . . .
and, once I began to listen, not only did this illumination become ever so much brighter, but I soon began to ~remember~ as well, of all of the reasons why . . .
and the echoes quickly and quietly became the many, and the many soon became a raging river of words, whose course would one day become known as The DoveTales, and whose destination would become a voyage not only of kings, but of all men who have ever called themselves such, and the follies upon which their empires were built, that now lie forsaken and forgotten, in the dusty rubble of their blind and misbegotten desires . . .
and therefore, it is a book of days . . . a diary, a ship captain’s log, if you will . . . a symphony of moments, a compendium of events that not only occurred along the path of my own life, but those that seemed to have been portrayed on a far grander scale, and in a place so very distant from this world, yet whose existence became all so delicately balanced, on the very razor’s edge, of my faith alone . . .
and all was held inside a never-ending story, that softly emerged with its first faint echo of words back in 1976, and reverberated steadily until the late summer of 1995, when, either by providence or the vagaries of Chance, I was struck by a bolt of lightning, which fused the essences of both my passion and my purpose, as the teller of this tale, and one, whose ~terrible beauty~ continues to grace the corridors of my heart to this very day . . .
and all that I have remembered . . . was remembered, and written, composed, or transcribed, at the time of ~arrival~, each and every day, of each and every month, of each and every year ever since . . . and whose message was carefully crafted in a remarkably unique fashion called ~uniVerse~, which, as I soon came to understand, would be known as the wedding of Word, and Art . . .
and yet, all the while, there still persisted the mind-numbing enigma as to why I was listening, and remembering, and recording these ~voices~ in a completely random sequence, which further kept from view not only the final secrets, but the final structure of the story . . . never knowing if I was ever in possession of even the first page, or the last, while always aware that what I did possess would remain, eternally, in between . . .
and during a major attempt, in 2008, to fully and completely resurrect, reexamine, and reedit all that had been written (3,000 pages), so began the final frontiers of my own voyage to understand in what manner this tale was to be told, and, in what medium would be best suited for its telling . . . and herein lies what you, and I, have so recently discovered . . . that the method and the means by which all the pages would be arrayed, is this . . .
and the first DoveTale in each of the Books of this trilogy shall for always hold that which was ~spoken~, and therefore ~heard~, in each and every January, of each and every year . . . and beginning of course, with the voice, of Aquarius . . . and thus, the second DoveTales are the Februaries, the thirds, are the Marches, and so on . . .
and therefore, the code, or the answer to the question as to how the story was to be told, was right there, all the time . . . because I had already known which Book an echo was to be placed in, I had simply to place each one in the Month it was created in . . . and, that is how it shall continue with every word I right, from this moment on, ‘til all moments, fade . . .
and, ‘til I, and therefore all of us, find Love, Again . . .