In Honor of Cassandra

Jangling dazzling cold and icy, the stars whip by as I search in time and place.
I see without light as I push forward past the present into the might-be/might have been. There is an outline somewhere of all the possible futures, a skeleton crew to man the scaffolding if it comes to pass.

I sense them as I pass by looking with my inner eye, groping through the darkness by feel alone. Search for what can be, search for what will be. I feel it now, dense, strong, resounding in a deep indigo baritone. This one, this life, this path is most likely, this path will come to pass. I wrap my arms in it and memorize the feel, the path, the colors of the angles and then I am cold and hot and blinking.

He will leave you; the child is yours; you will die but not this year or the next; the path you travel will lead you to unhappiness; quit the drinking if you want to live to be 30.
They look at me their eyes a little wilder than before. They nod, they always nod and they go with whispered thanks, unbelieving, worried, pushing my words away because they strike too close.