In my dreams, you’re dead. In my dreams, I see your corpse and I cry. In my dreams, I reach down to feel your heart and it never beats. In my dreams, I see your head in the oven. In my dreams I see the one I love, a sad and beautiful girl; she writes, and she loves. In my dreams, Charles, the bastard uncle who I love too much, is here. And I can’t quite reach Sylvia to take her hand and drag her from the kitchen. In my dreams, I am alive. I breathe. I feel. In my dreams, as in life, I am depressed, but I am content. In my dreams, Charles recites to me Melancholia because he knows I know, because he taught me. In my dreams, my ailments are filled with wonder; my madness is accepted. And I put my hand to your heart, and I feel my eyes well up because I cannot save you the way you have me. And I stand holding the gnarled hand of my mentor, and we say goodbye to you because you needed that escape that I yearn for because you know and because you love too little and too much.