He was sitting there, alone on the cold hard floor, captivated by the deceit of a dream. A dream that somehow, he could be normal. Somehow the cruel permanence of reality could ease for one moment so he could make real what he imagined. All these years he felt the private pain of a public scar. He could never be like them...this was his path in life, the burden of being everything but.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. For a brief second he thought it was hers or maybe his but the voice that spoke dispelled the notion with a cruel gentleness like the loud whisper of one's conscience.
He was empty again despite being perplexingly occupied. He was displaced again in the madness of his unobtainable desires.
The voice spoke, "it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live"
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