The writer strived for perfection, attempting to correct all that wasn’t right in life, putting it into words then making it work.
Caring not for what God had done, he became his own maker, shaping pages until all he saw was good.
This existence, vicariously lived through his fictions, satisfied, until he realised his creations could never offer a love that was absolute. A deathbed revelation: truth understood too late.
Then, a gift. One final vision.
A future where all that remained were lines left behind.
And a smiling reader, feeling the heart in his art and loving it forever.
Caring not for what God had done, he became his own maker, shaping pages until all he saw was good.
This existence, vicariously lived through his fictions, satisfied, until he realised his creations could never offer a love that was absolute. A deathbed revelation: truth understood too late.
Then, a gift. One final vision.
A future where all that remained were lines left behind.
And a smiling reader, feeling the heart in his art and loving it forever.
