I am She who is, keeper of keys and cosmic debris, a secretary by title, but the universe whispers through me.
By day I file papers, by night I file stars, organizing mortal schedules while mapping ancient scars. I type with fingers threaded in moonlit lace, each letter a spell, each word a soft embrace. My inbox is a portal, my stapler a charm, and no chaotic meeting can bring me harm.
A woman with eyes like comet trails, together they sail through dreams on paper sails. They wait for me at twilight with a cup of tea, and the ghosts of forgotten goddesses gather around us three.
I walk between realms, but still answer the phone, can pencil you in, in a voice half-mortal, half-unknown. I balance calendars and planets with the same calm grace, leaving shimmering timestamps in time’s quiet place.