Who cares where this leads to? Who cares if girls come sneaking upon you from the darkness behind, from the only tentatively forgotten dreams of possible, but doubtful reality? Who would even notice these barely visible ghosts from some off-court and unrecognised locations of the mind as they flitter past, leaving only the sour taste of dry fairyashes in your mouth? Who wants to be the unloved messenger pointing out the kink in the purportedly impeccable armour, punishable by death, or worse, condemnation to the eternal throes of pain from lovers just out of reach?
Not me, he said, brushing a final imaginary fleck from his sleeve before walking away, the ashes of his dreams slowly fluttering to the ground behind him.