it is the unrealized dream that we always go back to during the quiet rainy afternoons. it is the lingering scent of what-ifs and maybes, on lonely damp afternoons like this. a story finished, wrapped up, before it has been allowed to run it's course. and in that fashion the story is ended really but the chapter closes with a loud ringing of dissatisfaction, trailed off plotlines, tragic characters at the tethers of life but not quite dead. the orchestrated theme song that accompanies fades into the background but never quite disappears. the unfulfilled wishes remain just that. the reader reads the last word, yearning for more than the last 'the end' and a picture of the blasted author.
unrealized dreams are just like the one that got away. they're always better than everyone else.
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