They say the author is dead.
Last night you were alive in a dream.
Tell me, why does it feel like you live in the ink and the spaces between words and pages and pictures? I forever rue the moment I caught sight of your face. This will not last long, I am sure — none ever did, save perhaps the one — but it isn’t any less real.
And if I am wrong, then I could always wish you away. I find solace in knowing we will no longer meet, because we live in such fundamentally different worlds and you are leagues away.
In these quiet moments I wonder what it is about your words that got me, caged me so earnestly that I find myself staring blankly at the white pages, caught in the movie in my head that runs through images of tangled wires and footbridges, palace facades and chiseled gods…
A week ago you were in a corner, quiet and unassuming.
A fortnight ago you were only ever a name. . . .