“My point is -” he starts again. “- why aren’t the stories that actually affect us the ones that mean the most to us? Sure, I know people that like nonfiction. But even that is so far removed from our present reality as to be practically the same thing in terms of relevance. Sure, some people watch the news, and other people gossip about peers - and that approaches a type of story that relates to us on a personal level. But there’s this draw in every reader I’ve known that pulls towards the fantastic, the drastic and - while possible - extreme! Why is it that the sensationalized stories we know can never be true are the ones that move us to wonder, to imagine, or to dream…” He trails off, then looks at you again, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he says after hesitating. “We barely know each other. But here I am rambling to you about the philosophical nature of fiction.” Shaking his head, he moves to stand up.

  You blink, then stop him by placing a hand on his shoulder. “Because dreams are what make life worth living.” You say. You don’t know where the words come from, but there they are. Perhaps … more might come? “Life is dismal - it rarely changes. And when it does it’s usually for the worse. But the dream of there being something more - it pushes us forward. Because if we can believe in something as fantastic as that, then why couldn’t life get better?”

  Wyrr narrows his eyes at you, a small smile on his face. “That’s one hell of an answer.”

  He leaves you then, and you are left to contemplate your own words. And what, if anything, this particular dream might be about.

• The End •