I know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams.
Alone.
Alone. ALONE. Alone. Alone..
He is more alone now than before, and it's different now.
Nothing can be explained, and the rain pouring down over him while he listens to Wilfred does little to make him more aware of his existence. It reminds him only that he's on Earth. He's surrounded by humans on this tiny planet and he can't quite stay away.
Should he? Could he? There's no point in asking if he would. Or will or won't.
Useless questions are a waste, although he loves questions. They're more essential than air or water or ...no, not more essential than time. Couldn't be, no.
There will be someone looking up at the stars, though, and thinking of him. He's hoping it will be enough in those moments when he looks up, already speaking, and sees no one. Of course, the hope is silly, isn't it? Doesn't he already know? Yes, yes, of course.
There's something about a door he can't open, a wall that can't be broken through. There are no spaces, no clever ways to make things right. Right can be subjective, though, can't it? Of course it can. Things happened as they should. Everyone is living their lives, and that's right. He's glad for them, even in the alone. He can't be glad for what he had to do, though. He can't. Not now.
Turning, he reaches out to push open the TARDIS door. There are things clanking together in his pockets, and no one hears but him. His hand is outstretched, and there's water falling from his sleeve.
He's on his bottom, then, in the middle of a road across from a very tall building, and he just barely scrambles out of the way to avoid a car. His mouth open wide, his eyes frantic and wild and curious (mostly curious) as they search out something familiar, he settles on the skyline of buildings. There's honking and angry voices and he gives them all a wave that appears to be nothing short of friendly before flattening his hands on the ground. Upon feeling the concrete sidewalk beneath his palms, he takes a long breath and thinks --
He takes out his glasses, puts them on, and thinks some more. His glasses fog for a moment, then clear, and he squints through them. It's habit now. The sidewalk takes no notice of the circles he makes, again and over and again. Pausing, starting, halting, and frowning.
The TARDIS isn't here, isn't here, and that's remarkably bad.
People pass him, giving him strange looks as he mumbles aloud, occasionally pointing in a particular direction, then apologizing when it turns out he's pointing at someone's face.
"A rift," he says at last, conclusively. "All right, then." Now, he'll walk.
Alone. ALONE. Alone. Alone..
He is more alone now than before, and it's different now.
Nothing can be explained, and the rain pouring down over him while he listens to Wilfred does little to make him more aware of his existence. It reminds him only that he's on Earth. He's surrounded by humans on this tiny planet and he can't quite stay away.
Should he? Could he? There's no point in asking if he would. Or will or won't.
Useless questions are a waste, although he loves questions. They're more essential than air or water or ...no, not more essential than time. Couldn't be, no.
There will be someone looking up at the stars, though, and thinking of him. He's hoping it will be enough in those moments when he looks up, already speaking, and sees no one. Of course, the hope is silly, isn't it? Doesn't he already know? Yes, yes, of course.
There's something about a door he can't open, a wall that can't be broken through. There are no spaces, no clever ways to make things right. Right can be subjective, though, can't it? Of course it can. Things happened as they should. Everyone is living their lives, and that's right. He's glad for them, even in the alone. He can't be glad for what he had to do, though. He can't. Not now.
Turning, he reaches out to push open the TARDIS door. There are things clanking together in his pockets, and no one hears but him. His hand is outstretched, and there's water falling from his sleeve.
He's on his bottom, then, in the middle of a road across from a very tall building, and he just barely scrambles out of the way to avoid a car. His mouth open wide, his eyes frantic and wild and curious (mostly curious) as they search out something familiar, he settles on the skyline of buildings. There's honking and angry voices and he gives them all a wave that appears to be nothing short of friendly before flattening his hands on the ground. Upon feeling the concrete sidewalk beneath his palms, he takes a long breath and thinks --
He takes out his glasses, puts them on, and thinks some more. His glasses fog for a moment, then clear, and he squints through them. It's habit now. The sidewalk takes no notice of the circles he makes, again and over and again. Pausing, starting, halting, and frowning.
The TARDIS isn't here, isn't here, and that's remarkably bad.
People pass him, giving him strange looks as he mumbles aloud, occasionally pointing in a particular direction, then apologizing when it turns out he's pointing at someone's face.
"A rift," he says at last, conclusively. "All right, then." Now, he'll walk.