“Throughout my days on Earth, I have gone by a myriad of names. I seasonally got wind of epithets such as a rootless strider, a hammer lacking a head, a trampled idealist, and in most instances a hopeless dreamer. And yet: One cannot bring a fantasist back to ground by such utterings. Words for him are like indistinct silhouettes above a sea. Seagulls that disappear into a morning fog. They will erode like statues of stone and abate like the men who built them. A dreamer’s hope can only succumb at the dawn of a more brilliant, precious one.”