I would like to break your heart. You see, I am a nihilist, and I have managed to romanticize nihilism. It is my greatest comfort: that we are small and assured of our smallness. That we have none of the answers, that we are making it up as we go along. How large is the Atlantic? The Pacific? Now think: how far is it to Jupiter? To Bellatrix? And we matter, somehow? Are you sure? I do not believe in love, unless I am in love with everyone, and darling, dear one, I am in love with everyone. I realized long ago, ever since that fifth-grade play, that the girl with the green streak in her hair has always been the boy who never grew up. I am my own Wendy, asking myself, “Boy, why are you crying?” I already know the answer. My shadow won’t stick. None of ours will, casting long looks into an empty future, and finding patterns that aren’t really there. But they’re really pretty. Peter knew it, too. Death is an awfully big adventure, he said, and I tell you we are dying every day. Will you come adventuring with me? It’s all right. You can say no, for now.