Chorgil

A lot of this post will be stream of consciousness. It will lack my customary introspection.
Now.

"Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?"
The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me." he answered, after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course, I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day."

My heaven is the scent of rain, stomach twisting longing and the fulfillment of fading hope. Magic storms, fire, wings, unstoppable. Climbing trees and hiding gold beneath the roots for the children to find, in thirty years or so, maybe leave a treasure map in my will, addressed to excited young kids, or a random stranger in clever wicked poetry, full of merciless metaphors.

I have no children, I have no gold, I have no trees with big mystery roots.

It would have been nice to find someone who thought those things were worth something.
But I did not. So, I am sad. I am just sitting here, thinking of the point to any of this, when magic seems to have died away. When my pretty crystal presents, so carefully constructed, are just WEIRD. I thought I knew someone. I am the king of projection.

So, here I am, now, humming bars from Mozart's Requiem. Not easy. It is not exactly a catchy tune.