title from t.s. eliot.
while the world moves
these stories are getting a little old, now
He thinks he remembers the first one—red hair, maybe. She told the best stories, but that was years and years and years ago. The other Wendys are wonderful story tellers too, but never as good as the first one.
This Wendy—tall and dark-skinned with pictures on her arm (five Wendys ago told him that they were called "tattoos")—tells stories about machines that are alive and where people fly, though not like he does. The stories are good, but not like 1st Wendy. And the thing about machines are getting old. He remembers how the 20th Wendy told him about how they started.
He wants new stories, but all these Wendys don't have any imagination anymore.
He misses Wendy, but he misses her stories most of all.