Every stroke of the pen is ink spilled disregarded on a page. And so
he thought, alone in his room, looking upon his words and pictures as
ornaments in a mausoleum never to be touched by another. For what worth
is there in out pouring one's thoughts if for no other to see? Vanity
horrified him, and he hated seeing his works just as his own face in
the mirror, for each was a reminder of his own proud unhappiness in
his lonely identity.

But one still called to him, pulling at his heart against weariness
and the occlusion of years. It is the story of a girl and a boy born
into this world gifted with jewels insubstantial so that they carried
reflections of dreams no longer remembered by others. Divided by the
cast of their sex, the girl carried her jewel so deep inside herself
that even she could no longer see it yet it still carried the light
of lamps kindled before the stars, and the boy bore his stone such as
a mark of his being and so those who looked upon him despised him for
it and denied him any solace. For the jewels were precious and
beautiful, but those who saw them coveted them, and so also they were
a terrible burden.

By chance, the girl and the boy found one another at the world's end
beneath cloud covered darkness. The girl said, "Do you think we are
too much alike?"

The boy said, "I do not believe in a perfect match or know even what
it means, only that I long to be with you."

The girl did not answer, but pressed her head against his heart. The
skies opened, sweeping their tears away in rain.

The artist woke from his reverie, seeking to tell the story that had
swallowed his thoughts. But staring at an empty page, his thoughts
poured out upon it, and he found he was not gifted enough to capture the
sadness and the beauty he felt. So he sat, sinking into the story,
letting himself imagine that he was asleep and only a dream to tell of
on waking.