A fantasy.
A fantasy so fragile and tenuous and achingly beautiful that it could never have existed.
And when it came close to reality it couldn't quite make itself real.
And so it vanished once more.
Like it could never exist at all if I dared to touch it, because it was so delicate.
But beautiful it was.
I am not sad because I couldn't make it happen.
I am sad because nothing I could have done would ever have made it happen.
I can have but a shadow of it.
And I suppose that that as far as reality is concerned, that is more than I could have hoped for.
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