Suppose I really can forgive the person I hate the most. Suppose it's happening now. Suppose it's happened. It's happening, as you read, as we speak. But it's not the same, nonetheless. Whatever makes him happy, I guess, because it's same the other way around.

I think it's amazing how just one syllable of a voice can dispell all fear, all haste, worry. I think it's amazing.

Just so you know, the words are all coming back again. The angels, the ink, the veil between myself and the world. This time I'll welcome it and not be afraid because now I can stand on my own, without anyone else, without fearing what may be if I am alone again. That's what coming to terms is.

Uriel, take my heart, I say. Take it and make it more human, but not enough so that I am human altogether. When all is said and done, I wish only to be an artist: what I was born to be. What I will remain. What I will become. What I am. I wish only to be an artist.