[ He just died, he thinks he can be forgiven the sentimentality involved in one-sided gloved handholding, thank you very much. ]

What is a dream but a sign of deficiency? What is a wish but an admission that you are lacking?

[ The bullet, lodged squarely in the middle of his chest. His heart, just a little to the side, beating in an endless repetition of want, want, want. Even as he is nothing but a metaphysical representation of what he once was, that much cannot change. ]

Once we are in the places we are suited for, what will there be left to want?

[ A world in which he never would have met the people he cherishes the most. A world in which the pain of loss is an unknown fiction to him. ]