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That day in Albuquerque...  
1:01:00, December 26th, 2007
John Henry Holliday, DDS
Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude,
Like comets on the heav’nly solitude?
Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,
Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The Soul
Breasts his own griefs: and, urged too fiercely, says:
‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man
May be by man effaced: man can control
To pain, to death, the bent of his own days.
Know thou the worst. So much, not more, He

John has long breasted his own griefs but now, only now, he is beginning to face them and, dare he say, share them. This season he has reconsidered his deepest regret, peeling the rotting bandage from the hidden running wound, self-inflicted. It is not born of blood, hate or vice, despite his reputation. It is personal shame, and he had spent his last years atoning. But though he had suffered – rightly, he judges – it is never enough. He can never take back the words spat in jealousy and temper so long ago. Though he can forgive his friends any folly or darkness - from harm they do unto themselves to wholesale slaughter – John cannot forgive himself.

This season – this month – John has finally dared to do more than hold his pain clenched within him.

Always smugly confident that he feared nothing, he has found he is afraid of hurting those he loves. Again, he now has to admit. Again.

He has laid his hand humbly, respectfully and even wonderingly on Gabriel’s as he lit each candle of his silver menorah with its sad and touching story. And he has quietly recited the prayers after his friend; in English that John might understand them.

He has confessed to Gabriel, and found comfort in his forgiveness and arms. John has wept more this last year than he has in all his life, learning slowly to trust that he is loved and that his presence and personal words might be other than a burden or revulsion.

He has learned to answer Severus’ greeting and toasts warmly and without the initial horror at himself that had washed through him the first time he had replied. L’chaim.

He carries small trinkets for Gabriel and Severus, clinking softly in their little linen sacks. He likes silver and has scoured the antique shops searching for them – something he remembered. And finally he had taken them, formal, diffident and again humble, to a dark shop with a sign in recognised but unknown. “Teach me,” he had said, laying them on the counter. And he had been shown. He fingers the little gifts in his pockets now, waiting only for them to be accepted.

Atonement. All this has been working back towards John’s customary and essential unshakeable peace with himself. For John is shaken. And despite all he does and all he feels, his dreams are stalked and haunted. He wakens at night, eyes wide in the dark. And yes, he weeps, and only sometimes in fever. Guilt and loss. Confronting himself - opening that locked and barred door within him to himself – lets them creep towards him with the sun-deprived sickliness of anyone kept years in blind cramped darkness. They come towards him and enfold him; become again part of him. He wants to be washed clean. He wants to wash clean that hour though it has past. He tries, in these small ways, to make the present pure - as he would have it and as he would have himself.

Afterwards, he remembers himself running.
Afterwards, he never trusted himself to have a friend.
Afterwards, he never burdened his family again.

Afterwards, he had found himself kneeling before the altar in that small town in the Colorado mountains, exorcised with his hair damp and a cross of chrism on his brow, newborn.

But it had never been enough. Perhaps enough to bind the wound, but never enough to heal it.

John kneels again.
"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brethren, that I have sinned exceedingly through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do."

He rises and takes a deep breath to tell the story. Somehow it is confession he wants – to those friends he loves and considers brothers – that they will understand him, that they will know the worst of him, that he may be honest with them, that if they fear also or have such sorrow they will not be alone in that.

John begins:

"Has there ever been someone for whom you lived; someone who filled all your world; someone for whom you could live even when you would have welcomed death; someone in whom all your heart and soul were wrapped; someone you tried to give your life to protect or keep from even the smallest slight; someone who let your poor broken life have work and dignity and meaning and let you join them in plan and reason for all things right?"

Is that the way to start? Maybe not.
John tries again, the way he had told it to Gabriel, slightly obliquely but from the beginning.

“Once upon a time there was a girl. How may stories begin this way?
But I did not love her in a romantic way, and the story is not really about her.

“She came to town – that small inescapable mining town in Arizona – not as a prostitute, as so many single young women did; not as chaste, exactly, but with intentions to marry a dishonourable individual who shall not otherwise enter this story, lest it become unreasonably complex and long. She was only nineteen, of good family, with dark red hair and laughing eyes, for she saw adventure and humour everywhere. On coming to town she made acquaintance and friends with another equally virtuous young woman – a milliner. I had also helped this other young woman against the vile elements of town with arms, considered threat, active defence and determination. I am, in most things, a gentleman and as such cannot and will not treat a lady with other than gentleness, nor allow her to be mistreated. This new young woman had no livelihood, though she had been an actress, and I offered my polite and respectful Southern service and also gave her money, as needed.

“Alright. He uncoils his pain enough to speak it for this confession. “Her name was Josie.”

John begins again, it seems. “Once upon a time I had a friend. Wyatt. He was, as I said, everything. When I thought my life was worthless as well as over, I found such quality in him that I could take his cause and make it mine. He let me live not simply to die, but to give. Because he never asked for my reform or expected less of me than I could give, I gave him everything, curbing even my demeanour for his sake. I loved him – love him – and I do not hesitate to admit it.

”His wrong is your wrong
and his right is your right
In season and out of season.
Stand up and back
in all men’s sight -
With that for your only reason.
999 can’t bide
The shame
or mocking or laughter
But the Thousandth Man
Will stand by your side
To the gallows foot
And after!

“Wyatt. He never denied me, even when others jeered at his friendship, questioned it, or even looked likely to do so. Even when he was dying; even without being asked; even when – especially when – it would have been a personal detriment, he was always readily affirming: “Doc Holliday was my friend.” He never asked aught of me but valued my help and ideas, knowing of what I was capable and knowing too that he could nevertheless rely on my commitment. He sought my council, including me – even me - and forgiving my temper and vice, my illness and my reputation. Imagine what it meant to me, despised or feared, irrevocably separated from home and family. Wyatt opened his heart to me; listened to me; actually… prized me.”

After this John frowns, considering what he has said. “That makes it sound so small and personal, but it was so much more than that. I chose him. I chose him for his vision and diligence; for his pursuit of honour and right, in bravery, thought and preparation. And I admired his essential quietness, watching his serious concentration for his rare smile. It took me long to win his confidence and notice, pouring words as is my wont, and standing ever-ready until the occasion arose when I actually saved his life at the risk of my own, and he finally turned to me and embraced me.”

John has again distracted himself from his purpose, but returns to Tombstone - and his pain and loss – with a sigh.

“The girl. Wyatt had come know the girl through me, and had come to love her and desire a life with her. He had not changed towards me, sincere, open-armed and welcoming as always. But I was afraid and jealous with panic and bitterness rising through me, as I was helpless to check it. He had sent her away to California after the cowboys shot Virgil and killed Morgan. We were both bereft, Wyatt and I. His brothers were my family, and Morgan was close to me as a friend as well. Sharing our grief, Wyatt and I were more at one with one another than we had ever been before. For Morgan, we rode together against those who had cast an evil shadow over the territory. Shoulder to shoulder, we dealt vengeance, sleeping out of doors, planning and acting in perfect unison – Wyatt and I. In purpose and… communion unsurpassed, my life had reached its zenith of service and love, finally fulfilled. And we killed and killed and killed.

“When we were finished, we rode into Albuquerque sated, our hearts risen and our hands dripping blood. There may have been some we killed in whom I might have seen that spark of pain and guilt, strength and duty. But there have been so few that it was not likely in such as congregated among the cowboys, Billy Leonard aside. There is no time in such situations, and we had purpose and the vision of a better world to steel us. We were cleansing to build civilisation in the West.

“Albuquerque. We came to my own friend Gillie Otero to rest and wait in New Mexico. It had been a hard trail and I was, of course, ill. And I was ill with something else.” John takes another deep breath to confess. “I failed Wyatt at Iron Springs. True, I was behind him on the trail, true I saved the life of Texas Jack. But I did not ride forward through the bullets to fight at his side. And he killed Curly Bill and stood bravely, valiantly, and alone. He had been ahead of us on the trail and rode into them as we were going towards the water. As the bullets flew, Texas Jack’s horse went down, and we who were behind Wyatt retreated. I went back for Texas Jack, but Wyatt was dismounted and still moving forward in the thick of the fray, fighting them by himself.

“Wyatt forgave me. Afterwards I had proposed – oh, too little and late – that we pursue them, but he only looked at me and later said we had ‘rallied belatedly.’ He had forgiven me, and God in Heaven. But I had not forgiven myself this.

“As we waited in Gillie’s town with little for occupation, I worried about this constantly. Wyatt changed towards me not at all, but he began to speak again of making a life with the girl. I was already off balance with guilt – disturbed, nervous and worrying. I had helplessly descended into that dangerous disorganisation where one constantly calculates and recalculates, succumbing to alternating waves of hope and despair as to the welcomeness of my presence or actions. Such is never a good state, leading to folly and sorrow. Man can control to pain, to death, the bent of his own days… Can. But sometimes one is simply… mad. Guilt and pain. States but not excuses. There is no excuse.”

John looks miserable. There is nothing more to the story but what he did. He is sure no one will speak to him again, touch him, or trust him to love them without harm, though it is all he wants. John sounds miserable, even remembering. The pain is still there. Not just guilt, but the bewilderment and hurt that had led to it. The panic and fear are still there to feel in the memory. He continues as best he may.

“Wyatt began to visit and stay with a Jewish man in town. And he still shared with me. But the light in his eyes, the learning and his happiness in the newness of discovery and change were for her and from her. I was included, but…” John looks down, ashamed too that he is still hurt… still. “I was not first.

“He wore a tefillin, such as only the most orthodox do, and a kippah. He lit candles and learned prayers. He showed me the little dreidel and learned of the holy days. New words in Hebrew and new letters. For her, all for her. Leaving me in spirit if not in fact. He loved and I was small and yes… selfish, but… but…”

John recollects himself and says the rest blandly and simply looking away. “I found myself taunting him and sneering, laughing at him in the street. ‘So you want to be a rotten Jew-boy…’” It is too much. He cannot continue. The terrible words echo and burn and he cannot recount them again though they score his mind with burning fire that will never completely die away, no matter what he does.

He wraps his arms around himself. “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” If he asks it of himself he cannot grant it.

Eventually he manages to continue and nearly quotes what Gillie had said, confirming to himself he had had regret, because it came from an objective friend, “I was sorry the moment I said it, but I had said it, had done it. I was not to be trusted. I had… betrayed and hurt the greatest man I knew, my… friend... who I loved like nothing on earth. Wyatt, Wyatt...” He needs to stop himself from wailing, apparently, even now.

“And I left him, for I had... sinned beyond my own endurance. I could not bear to be a person who could behave so. I came to see him when I was nearing death. To say goodbye. Goodbye. Until I am to see him again. And I shall see him again, knew by then I would see him again. He forgave me. He still loved me. And yes, I never dared have a friend again, never sought the companionship or sympathy of my family. No one. I paid, but the debt is incalculable.”

His eyes are wet, intense as always, but sad, old and open with shame. “Forgive me?” Help me forgive myself? Help me... redeem myself? He clicks the little gifts in his pockets. Trying, trying, trying in small ways to make it better. And still he feels that he does not deserve to try, for himself. But deserves to feel that shame eternal. God forgives him, Gabriel has said, and he knows it must be so. And Gabriel forgives him. But nothing ends it.
affect: draineddrained
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7:26:22, December 27th, 2007 (UTC)
the Archangel Gabriel: W03
Description: W03
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22:08:00, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
John Henry Holliday, DDS: gabriel medal
"Gabriel." John closes his eyes and leans back against the angel's chest.
Description: gabriel medal
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22:14:51, December 27th, 2007 (UTC)
if I understand things properly, this phrase guides:
He pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent

and the Angels are as much His agents as any who speak on earth.

and for those of my ways:
You know what you've done. You've paid the price.
Better a neighbour (and friend) whose paid his prices and moved on than be caught forever in grief.
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22:06:06, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
John Henry Holliday, DDS: Glenwood Springs Eyes
"It is one thing to know that and another to feel it. Yes, He has forgiven me. And who am I not to forgive where He does so?

"But also, being caught in grief is not to be caught always. It is neither so clean nor cut as that. I try. I love. I tell. I am the best friend I can be, for it is fulfilling and nothing is higher than friendship. Yet there are corners that are not pure - dark corners I sometimes notice within myself, for they exist still. And when I notice them, I am not caught exactly, but I think on Wyatt and what I did and my loss of him, and it hurts. How could it not affect me? Guilt and loss."
Description: Glenwood Springs Eyes
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6:14:09, December 28th, 2007 (UTC)
Theodore 'Hickey' Hickman: Straight out honest
Christ, Doc...

I mean, if that's the worst you've done, you can't be doing too bad. I can see what you're saying, how something like that can nag at you, because it's something you know you said, something you can't avoid... But there're worse things you can say. At least you know it wasn't what you maybe should've said. I've seen plenty of guys couldn't do that much. And I've damned sure heard worse and maybe even said worse. Some things you just can't help saying, even if you know they aren't any good. Hell, it's what we are, I guess.

You lose yourself sometimes. Say that much; it happens. It's alcohol or jealousy, usually, and it never ends well. And, all right, remembering afterward is the worst part of it, because you see what you should've known then. But you can't do a thing for it now, Doc, except to know why you said it, and make sure you don't do it again. We might learn slowly--oh, I've seen guys take years and years to learn a damned thing--but we figure things out eventually. The answer is never to just give up. You can't give up on the guys you care about, you can't just give up on getting close to others, and you can't give up on yourself.

Besides, if you feel this bad about it, you can't have meant it. That's what makes that sort of thing so damned hard, sometimes; it's just, ah, petty, but you can't exactly take it back. Look, if he forgave you, that's about as good as you can get... Aside from forgiving yourself, of course, and it sounds like you've suffered enough from this one, Doc. Like you said, sometimes we do things--maybe it's madness; sometimes it seems like it'd better be--and we just can't help it. There's gotta be some point where you let it go, or you'll just be cowed by it forever, and you're too good a guy for that to happen.

You can't spend the rest of your life looking for forgiveness. You just can't.

Anyway, like I said, there's worse you could do. Christ, you're a hell of a decent guy, Doc, and I'd hate to see you eaten up by this any more. If it'll help, I'll buy you a drink--Hell, I'll buy you a drink, anyway.

And I've gotta say, all else aside... It took a helluva lot of guts to tell this. That's got to be a decent sign, itself.
Description: Straight out honest
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6:27:13, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
John Henry Holliday, DDS: Glenwood Springs Eyes
John sits by Hickey and takes a drink, offering his friend one in turn. He leans forward, confidentially. "Sometimes, Hickey, we lose ourselves. In temper, or maybe just discouragement. Courage. I don't know. I feel foolish, maybe now, or as if I had lost some of myself speaking of it. I've been keeping it back, as I say within me. I don't know. I've been thinking on it lately - so many things reminded me, maybe it hit me harder than was warranted. But usually, when I weep, or when I allow something to... to affect me like that, it is at night, when I am ill, or certainly in private.

"Some things take years to make right, even if you know them at once. I know why, but I know I let myself be carried away, and I... might do it again. I am afraid of it.

"It is different in this new time. I am standing again, uncowed, trusting myself, trying to earn trust. But I worry. People... well, I love them. And they are so much, when one finds them, as one does so rarely. You... love more broadly, more openly and... yes: democratically. And I love the ones like me - with pain and guilt and strength. But it is different. Maybe I am more brave."

John looks down. "I have to admit too that if I never cultivated friends afterwards, in those days - never tried to find make or be a true friend - I also was unable to find such a person. They are rare. Perhaps had I found the right person, people, I should have repeated myself.

He looks up. "There is no knowing. Wyatt forgave me. Gabriel forgave me, and his Father. And I try now, with aid, to forgive myself. But sometimes in the night, even when there is no fever - and I almost always write at night - things seem more risky for friends, and I do less well with it than in the day."

He pours further drinks.
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8:32:29, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
Theodore 'Hickey' Hickman: Oookay
Well. Hickey takes the drink with scarcely a moment's hesitation, though he recognizes and thinks about it after. Never mind that, now. Hell. "Sure, you keep something like that in you, it gets to be a part of you... But you're better of without it. You know that, Doc. Like you said, you keep it inside, and it gets you when you're alone. Now that you've said it, you don't have to worry so much about that. That's gotta count for something.

"And, Christ, don't I know what you're saying, about it taking years to make right? You've had years, though, Doc, and giving it another chance'll show you that you're getting it right. Maybe you can't prevent mistakes, but you can go a hell of a way to avoid making 'em again. Just have confidence in yourself; I know you've got it in you.

"Sure, sure you're braver, Doc. You've just gotta believe that, and I mean really believe it. You've got these old doubts, and you've just got to shake them. I know, I know it's not that simple, but that's what it comes down to.

"And you understand people; I guess that's what makes it so damned difficult, too, because that sort of understanding... Well, we all know what kind of guys even the best of 'em are. You'll find 'em, though, or they'll find you; it's been my experience that guys of similar makings find one another, no matter where the hell they might be. It's some sort of survival instinct, or something."

He takes a drink; good, but goddamn... Better not to touch the line about losing yourself, now. It's not the time; that's for sure. "When it gets like that at night, y'know, just find someone. You can usually bet someone'll be around."
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22:00:14, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
John Henry Holliday, DDS: Prescott eyes
John half-grins at his friend. "Well, you are still talking to me, even knowing of what I am capable. It's a strange thing though - jealousy. One can't share it at the time when one needs to do so. And then, in that case, it... exploded. I've not done that since, but it is not that I have not felt jealousy, and it always plucks at panic." He does not say that everyone is capable of it. Mattie had not had it in her, and probably Evelyn had not either. John can scarcely even imagine.

As to the second, John quotes the rest of his poem. Kipling's poem.
"One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half of your days
If you find him before the other.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world against you.

It is neither promise nor prayer nor show
That will settle the finding for thee
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them go
By your looks or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world won't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

"But it is one man in a thousand. And Wyatt... it was him. And now maybe a few others. Gabriel - he's different, and maybe it is he who makes the difference now. He loves his Father, who is love, and at that the forgiving full love I sometimes feel. And he is angel of death and birth for, oh, everyone! Jealousy is ridiculous there, and he is eternal. He will never go, and has been with me always, really. And maybe that lets me try now, to risk being a friend, with surety behind me."

It is something he admires in Hickey, his last statement. It is not so for him, but he admires it in his friend - that ability to, knowing people, still find value and comfort in any of them, in dark nights. John hesitates before he addresses it, not wanting his own disagreement to sound like he has anything but full and vital appreciation. "At night, I feel more alone in company. I need certain tings in people, not comfort, but understanding maybe, or still more likely I need to be able to understand the others. You are maybe giving me too much credit there. I see and understand people, but I do not love them for it. So much seems small and petty. I understand it and it is separation, not communion. I..." He says it. "Can see it is not so for you. You still love and respect. It brings you closer. It is beautiful, and... goodness. Everyone should love you for your understanding generosity. And I'll warrant they do." He smiles with some warmth if sadness at Hickey.

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21:29:37, December 30th, 2007 (UTC)
Theodore 'Hickey' Hickman: Considering
Hickey laughs, shrugging. "Well, like I said, Doc: I've heard worse, and from guys I knew'd go out and say the same sort of thing next chance they got." Another drink. "Some guys take longer than others to catch out, or just don't want to get any better. Usually the second of those, and you can at least say you're trying... It's one of those things that sets you apart, Doc. Most guys are pretty content to sit back and let themselves keep saying the same thing, figuring they'll reform... We-ell, you know. Tomorrow.

"And you're right. Jealousy's one of those things that's hard to fight against, because you don't know when it'll hit, and what do you do when it comes? We can all say we'll control ourselves, but when the time comes... Hell, I'm sure you'll be just fine, Doc. You worry about it too much--not that that's entirely a bad thing; just seems to get to you, and that's never feels any good--and that worrying's gotta help you, keep you in touch with yourself."

He hasn't heard the poem, or can't remember having heard it, and it's interesting, suitable. There's truth in it--Hickey doesn't know that he takes to the whole of its sentiment, but he can at least agree--and it's interesting, too, the way the Doc speaks it (both that and what comes after). "Sounds like a fitting poem for you, Doc. And if you've found that one--or, like you said, something more that, which is a hell of a thought, and a good one, at that--we-ell, I'm glad to hear it. Because even a guy like you can't go relying on himself forever. If it takes one of those guys that'll really understand, really stand by you, then I sure do hope you've found him. I can see why you'd want that, someone you can trust a little more, sure. And in any case, you need someone else there if you're ever really gonna have confidence or faith in yourself.

"Hell, if Gabriel's--how'd you put it?--making the difference, you might try to talk to him when nights get like that. Sounds like it might help." Unless he's seeing it crooked, but Hickey doesn't really consider this.

Again he laughs, masking a vague uncertainty. "Sure, I make a good impression with people. I like to, I want to, and I know how, so it happens like that. And the gang likes me all right, or did... They've been great guys all along--the girls, too--even though we all knew each other's faults. Hell, how could we miss 'em, shooting bull the way we did... But like you've figured, Doc, I like 'em, anyway. Everything about the gang--about anyone, you come down to it--right down to their faults. None of us are perfect, and it's a shame that we've gotta hide like we do, be better if we could just get it out there...

"People are interesting, though. You take any man or woman, and you've got a whole lot of stories in front of you. A whole lot of lies--well, kidding thoughts, anyway--to work through, too, and that's part of the fun. If I wasn't so interested in them, I would've been a damned poor salesman." A smile, and he takes another drink.

"But there's no reason you've gotta love everything about everyone. Might help to be discriminating, sometimes. I can't do much of that, but that's just me. You see people the way they are and want to know them like they are, and most of us can't do that. Guys get scared off by that. I wouldn't call that small or petty at all, Doc; seems to me it's honest, takes a lot of guts to look at life that way."
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3:26:19, January 6th, 2008 (UTC)
John Henry Holliday, DDS: Prescott framed
Hickey, John notices, is actually drinking more than he is himself. he is the last man to limit another's alcohol consumption, let alone that of a friend, but he notices. he has also said, oh, a great deal.

He will start with the pipe dreams. He looks into his friends eyes, directly. "It is different for me, Hickey. I don't have any pipe dreams, for there is no 'tomorrow' for me, and I am always immediately aware of it. If there is anything I wish to do, anything I wish to be, I must act no. There is no time for even dissembling or coyness, unless it is the only way to give, or reach for that I desire or that in which I believe. It has been so long I can scarcely conceive of any other way to proceed.

"After all, with that, who am I to be jealous? Tomorrow I will be gone, and who am I to cast a shadow over one I claim to love or a blight over any more lasting peace and wonder in another than I can ever offer? But then, I learned that after Wyatt. And yet again, I feel it and know I can feel it again. I fear irrationality."

He looks off. He is being honest, searching within the depths of himself. And he trusts Hickey not to be hurt or turn away but to listen and understand this was his best truth of himself. Valuable. So valuable, and he looks forward to Hickey in Heaven also. "It is fun - to learn the lies and truths. But often, truly, as it is not for you... I find no truths or lies worth seeing. Nothing. And I turn away. Men value Nothing so much as their sense of worth and so uniqueness. And when their identity is only another wave of sea for me, passing and indistinct, I fulfill their deepest fear. Not spiders, not heights, not even death, which is inevitable. What people fear is their utter dispensability.

"I only care for those who need not fear this. You... this is what came over them in their pain when you tried to free them. They had to confront this in themselves, but... You loved them nonetheless, as I never could. you were there to hold them from the horror, still valued, seen and extant. They would have come to know it and work in simple truth. If they were waves before, you came to grant them calm..."

John realises he is probably ranging too intrusively where he has no right, but his own nerves and will feel raw, and he is honest, as honest and true as he can be.
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22:12:56, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
This absolutely heartbreaking, amazing...there are no words for this post. The writer is a wonderful person and the character is absolutely stunning and a pleasure to read. YOU TOTALLY ROCK!

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22:51:31, December 29th, 2007 (UTC)
John Henry Holliday, DDS
Why, I am... amazed and gratified by your thoughtfulness. How you found my post buried in my journal I have no idea. Thank you so kindly. I find myself nearly speechless. 'Everything for John,' I say first on his profile, and to find him read, understood with sympathy and appreciated - well, it means a great deal. Thank you so much. I will subscribe to your recommendations and offer links to the posts I encounter which I find especially moving and well-written. What a wonderful, generous and thoughtful idea for a journal! What a gift you give to the RP communities! Thank you again. I am stunned.
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