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.)

[THE END]

Paracelsus, by Robert Browning
Read by Fox Mulder on The X-Files.

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As much as I hate everything that I’ve done in life and the people that made me like this, I guess the experiences come in handy when trying to understand others, and especially through my expression in Art. It’s strange to think how life could have panned out a lot different, but without the darkness, I would have never met you, and made the memories that I will treasure until the end of time. I love you, you know who you are x