This was never about what it seemed to be about, not high tales or state secrets or even love. It was always about you and me and the channel we have opened between us, from my self to yours. I am in you now for ever, in the corners of you, in your Pentemychos. What is the difference between a person and a book? We can know the truth of neither. Both are encoded things seeking to make themselves clear. Both must be read and quickened within us—after all, we never know another person directly, soul to soul. We know only the gathered ghost that represents them inside our minds, the impressions they leave, the signs they give us that define them. The words that held the flavour of me have shrivelled into memory, but the thing that I am, the animus, has passed from the pages through the print and into you and can never be erased. In some it will burn low and even go out, though the blowing ash will still be there. In others—in you—it will persist. You will look for me in the dark, when you are alone and afraid, and I will be there—the worst of comfort, and the best; the hint of survival, even in the face of certainty. Waking, you will have a choice before you to accept your inevitable end or to fight it, and if you fight it you will convey to others that same determination. I am spread by this means across the world, the essence of me that will not give up, that is afraid, that knows its purpose is to defeat finality and to challenge the very notion of endings. Magic is the invocation of names.