The character: dark humored, quick wit, a suicidal writer type who inevitably turns out to be gay, nice smile.

Everything I should have learned to avoid by now, and I fell tonight, hard. Only a movie... with a Bob Dylan soundtrack, though, chaining emotions from out of bounds.
Going home from the theater empty-handed, and no relief in the fact that it would only be another mistake if it were actually happening to me. Which is why I'm here, now, writing into an empty void about why my pulse is a little faster tonight.

I fall in love with real people, too, but only after they're gone, it seems. Memory is the finest thread for weaving your own perfect story. I do halfway try to stay in touch with the writers, at least, they're easier to glorify and make for keepsakes of letters.
I have a cedar chest full of them, pages and pages of beautiful words, typed, inked, the pencils fading. Some still folded into intricate little packages, and many in my own hand.

The best have been composed across great canyons of time and space, less diluted by the trivialities of real life. A thoughtful concentrate, wrapped in the lyrics of a bard. I may find myself a writer, in erratic spurts of inspiration that seem to fall right around the time I find myself in love again, with someone to write for, that is.

Life explodes in fantasy adventure for a few brief moments until I realize what's happening and leave, no forwarding address.
I have simply written a scene around me, leaving my favorite character behind, confused, to realize:
Every story comes to an end.
But, I have many memories yet to weave, many lives yet to lead.

This story's not over yet.