Dreams alone won't get you far. I guess that's the way things work out. I wrote a whole stinking novel about it. "All is futile and pursuit of wind." All is windall is windall is wind.

I took my own advice and decided not to be Sibyl Freid. I walked in a door and closed it; I blocked out the wind. I held onto what was tangible and took is as far as I could, farther. I tried to prove myself, not to anyone, but to myself. But I fail. Still, I'm doubted, and still, that gives the people who should have the most faith the reason to screw me over. Usually, I'm not one to give up, but it's too tiring now. The plan has changed. I'll get a job and work and instead of making it a reality, I'll remember the vigor of academia and the ecstasy that enraptures me when I learn anything. I'll remember it and leave it behind.

No, I don't blame anyone. The buck still stops here, Harry. Still. And always will. I'll just never understand why it wasn't ever enough, no matter what. Maybe it's stupid, but I can't swallow my pride here. I tried and I'm changing my mind. I can't. I'm sorry. I just can't swallow it and more blows come and the dominos fall.

It wouldn't have made any difference. I wonder how some people can keep on putting faith and love or whatever it is into something or someone who only goes through the motions, who pretends to care and sympathize but doesn't give a damn at all. Not to say that I'm not selfish, but I take others into account. My last intention in the world is to hurt someone. But some people don't care and that's all right. I've always moved myself, taken care of myself, and have been by far happier for it.

If this doesn't work out, though, the path will change. It's back to the heat, back to the South, back to the only focus I ever should have had: words and what they say. No more people. I tried there, too. And no more trying to regain what might have been.

I should have stayed in Europe.

"Angel, cover me."
And he does.
"Angel..."
"Do not speak, my dear." It is not Uriel, but Micha'el. I turn my head under the weight of Uriel's wings. "Do not speak."

I nod and look at the angel. He reads my mind, so I don't have to speak.
"No, do not give up. There is time, yet. And there is life. You have said yourself that it is more imaginative in itself than any make-believe. Here is your living proof. And do not listen to a foolish Seraph filled with human notions of hearts and death. Listen to me. Listen to the message a true angel has to convey to you, a message not from his own mind, but from the Heavens."
"I will, Micha'el. But I'll still love the other."
"Certainly. You find his time will be most like yours."
"What do you mean?"
"Your time will tell you."
He calls Uriel away and I am released and there is nothing but my own reality surrounding me. I shut my eyes to it and press my face into the bed.
Suddenly, my own words whisper in my ears, a reminder: "There will always be blank pages and full pens. And if there aren't, there's always dust."