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I like her, but you just get this feeling she's headed straight for a crash. We turn the pages, discuss prose and story arcs, laugh at the discrepancies of rough drafts. I look my main character in the eyes, hear her bottomless despair of so many years, see the way her smile sparkles in the upturns. She's waiting even for herself to betray her.

But the words have been here for longer than you've known you needed them. You revel in them, float dreamily along their streams and rejoice in their homecoming. The words have stood by you when everything else has crumbled underneath your thumb.

You vow not to betray them, now.