I turned back. I knew I shouldn’t have. His eyes looked up after me from the port. This journey would lead to places, ports and dimensions that were only a feint conception jotted on paper,not yet written. I felt my resolve return and heard Coleridge whisper in my ear:
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love
And feed this sacred flame.
So with this, I am off.
