[ More than once. Their tragedies are like reflections, no distortions, just the same vein of loss and loss again running through them. He has only a litany of regrets. And now that she's back in the world, he wonders about the minutiae of hers. He's picked at her story, wanting to grasp it, knowing it would be in his hands if he only asked. Diana trusts him. ]
[ To love is a strength. Trust is like self-delusion, but having it requires submitting to the indignity of being known. In some way. ]
There are more of them.
[ Barry and Victor. The names he has of that other world. There are more people in his circle than he knows what to do with. More people who have grasped on to the shadowy tendrils he reaches out and used them as shelter. ]
no subject
[ To love is a strength. Trust is like self-delusion, but having it requires submitting to the indignity of being known. In some way. ]
There are more of them.
[ Barry and Victor. The names he has of that other world. There are more people in his circle than he knows what to do with. More people who have grasped on to the shadowy tendrils he reaches out and used them as shelter. ]