When the ocean took a mortal wife, their dreams escaped into the world. The ocean and his wife took their dreams from the mortal world and placed them into their daughter, the ocean’s heir. Some few dreams fled from the tower where the ocean and his wife lay together for a single night, and these dreams made their way into the lands where mortals dwelt.

The dream, Kathleen, skipped over the waves of the ocean, confused and frightened, yet desiring freedom from the world of dreams. Who is to say if she came from a mortal woman or from the ocean, for their dreams shared a room and there was little to distinguish one from another. She left the tower and the ocean, and fled to the cities of men.

Kathleen would sleep during the daytime and, as she slept, she would dream of mortal men. When men and women dream, their dreams take life from their sleep. But in the slumber of dreams, the lives of men and women find their inspiration. In this way, the city in which the dream Kathleen slept became inspired by her slumber. Few other cities had their own dreams and, in truth, this one did not know she lived within its walls. The men and women walked and dreamed in the day, and in the night Kathleen walked the gaslit streets, a flicker of light to mortal eyes. The city did not know it dreamed her dreams, but it loved her just the same. Every artist to paint, every writer to write, and every poet to sing in the city was, in some way, in love with Kathleen.

This was the burgeoning age of romance, with an ode composed to a beautiful woman every hour of the day, and endless portraits of endless beloveds being painted and sold. In all of these there was something of Kathleen: her smile there, a quirk of speech here, the tilt of her head, a certain attitude and bearing. It is said that cities are living things, and if this were true, then Kathleen was the soul of this city.

Kathleen was charmed by the city streets, by their gas lanterns and warm light through drawn curtains. She would read all the works of the city’s poets, seeing how they had fallen in love with her without ever seeing her. She wandered through the galleries and the homes of the wealthy, and smiled at how this artist had posed his model just as Kathleen slept, or how that artist had placed her features over those of another woman. She read all the books on the city’s shelves, and recognized herself hidden in the crowds.

However, after many years of being the dream of the city, and being comforted by the love of all the city’s artists and poets and writers, Kathleen discovered she was still lonely. “I cannot touch mortal flesh, and they cannot see me, for I am still but a dream to them,” she thought to herself. So thinking, she became determined she would be seen by mortal eyes and touch mortal flesh.

The first night Kathleen sought out a writer. She came upon him sleeping, and found his manuscripts and love letters. She found many pages torn to shreds, and letters to loves long lost hidden away in a chest. As she touched and read each of these letters, their parchment became her skin, and thus she came to have skin made of old love letters.

Kathleen admired herself in the mirror whilst the writer slept, pleased to behold her features for the first time, as they crinkled and folded. But soon she was tired, and realized it would be daylight was not long off. She returned to the high tower where she always slept, and there spent the day dreaming, her love letter chest rising and falling.

The second night Kathleen sought out a sculptor. She found one who was sleeping, and found all his soapstone carvings and half-finished marble figures. She touched each of these, savoring the sensation of her fingers on cold stone, and in touching the carvings her body become much more than a shell of paper. Her skin turned the purest white, still writ with love letters, but she had far more substance than skin alone.

She whiled away the hours of the night picking up pieces of sculpture, tools, and books, simply for the sake of feeling their weight, and feeling her body respond in kind. But daylight was too soon on the horizon, and Kathleen became tired again.

The third night Kathleen sought out an artist. Emboldened by her newfound substance, she searched until she found a painter with his light still burning. She appeared before his door and, when he answered, she told him, “Paint me.” He knew immediately she was the muse of the city, for it was impossible not to recognize her. Even had he wished otherwise, he would have been compelled to obey. But she was a muse, and she was beautiful, and the painter did nothing more than take her hand, lead her to his studio, and prepare a canvas.

He painted through the night until, in the earliest hours of first twilight, he fell asleep at his canvas, drooping in his stool, brush clattering to the floor. Kathleen crept up to see what he had painted and marveled at the work in oils, wanting to touch it, but knowing it was still wet. “I must stay the day here,” she thought, “so that when my painter awakes he will know it was not a dream.”

The painter, upon waking late in the day, was sure he had been dreaming, as Kathleen had guessed he would be. He saw first his canvas, and second the white-skinned woman with love letters writ on her body, and his heart quickened. This was the muse, and as she slept, and dreamed, and inspired him with her dreams, so he took canvas after canvas, mixed his oils, and painted her sleeping form over and over.

When Kathleen woke up with the setting of the sun, she found herself surrounded by herself, her artist still painting in a fury of pigments. She woke gently, and gently she approached him and took the brushes from his hand. She set his paints aside and took his hands in hers. “No,” she said to him, waving him away from his canvases. “I want you to paint me. Paint me.”

The artist understood what she wanted. He rinsed his brushes first, and set out his paints and his palette. Then he painted Kathleen. He painted vibrant life into her skin. He painted over the love letters. He painted color into her eyes. He painted red into her hair, and he painted each detail of her body. But still, under the paint, she was made of love letters and marble, and she would be all of these things ever after, the paintings, the poems, and the sculptures.

Kathleen the dream had her mortal flesh and she embraced the artist in thanks, holding him close as she felt, for the first time, the warmth of another mortal’s touch, and the feel of skin against her own. She kissed him, only to see what such a thing was, and left him to his inspiration.

To this day Kathleen lives in the city, sleeping in its towers during the day and inspiring all its artists. She is still written of by poets, and she still appears in great novels, and she can still be seen in paintings and sculptures. Every once in awhile she will go out and find another poet, or another writer, and cover her skin in love notes. She finds another artist to paint her a fresh and bright new face, and in this way she inspires each new generation.