He aches even all this time later, isolated in a little
world he chose for himself, missing her, I suppose, along with the rest of
humanity he professes to despise, perpetually bitter at how life has turned
out, even when it has become exactly what he expected, the brass ring, hollow,
when he assumed it would be made of gold, this fool on a hill whose life has
become a string of predictions, each as hollow as the last. Living in a haze of
dreams he assumed would come true, scribbling in his notebook or tapping on his
tablet the fictions he saw, but have faded into dust like old typed pages
fading un the intensity of sunlight, legible, but barely
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