The story is my lifeboat, my compass and my rudder. Without it, I am directionless. Adrift in a sea of melodramatic melancholy nonsense. Unnecessary human emotional gobbledy-goo-boo-hoo, an unrequested gift born of the consequences of my own choice-ridden existence. Everything led to this. Survival through beautiful delusion, blessed escapist homeopathy.
When the story arrives, when it reveals its ending, I have new purpose. New direction. New hope. A dream resurrected. The story points the way, and I look forward to another day. Maybe this will be the one. Maybe not, but the work must be done. The dream is a dream, the hope a hope. The work is survival.
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