I didn't know your identity, but I had an impression of who my opponent was, being surrounded by things you made.

But you built me dreams instead.

Is magic not enough to live for?

I paint very messy. I throw paint around. So when I let myself do the same sort of thing with my writing, and I would just write and write and write and revise, that's when I found my rhythm in writing.

Perhaps it is controlling the chaos within more than the chaos without.

You told me love was fickle and fleeting.

And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines.