Don't sabotage yourself, he says. I do nothing else. Write.
What right do I have to create?
I want to tell stories, that's all. Beautiful painful little tales. I still ache for the plot. Throw some more at me. Let me fall, like Alice, into reveries. Let me slice myself open on heartache, hurting deliriously from the knowledge it all will end, it almost already has.
Well, it has.
We're in the after. There are no more kisses, no potential. She didn't become an artist, or a scholar, or any other kind of immortal. She's just slowly dying.
A kind of luck, of course. But still.
Write.
Shut up, I will.