At times, I almost dream.
(Mulder is standing in a long field. The grass is tall, up to his waist, and there is no sign of habitation save for a fence. There is a slight breeze. He is looking sorrowfully at two pictures.)
I, too, have spent a life the sages’ way and tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance an age ago… and in that act, a prayer for one more chance went up so earnest, so… instinct with better light let in by death that life was blotted out not so completely… but scattered wrecks enough of it to remain dim memories… as now… when seems once more… the goal in sight again.
(The two pictures are very old and black-and-white, one of a civil war soldier, the other of a belle from the same time. The picture of the belle is ripped in half.)