"That didn't happen."

"What?"

"You never thought of that. Never did that. Ever. Never."

"But I saw it!? I saw myself, doing it. I remember doing it. My name was printed on the leather bound cover in a Times font-face, the leather was dark-blue. It felt real. The text quotes and makes parallells. Draws on; inspired by. I remember writing. Constantly. For months. And reading. I remember it all coming together. Or rather, I remember the feeling of it all coming together. The feeling of having written. The feeling of having made."

"I remember a year before that, I was sitting in a train station, waiting, when the flutter of dove wings snapped me out of my reverie and brought on a sudden realisation. A very simple, a very tentative, knitting together of two threads. A hint of a parallell, some sort of intimation of a thing aesthetically right. Good words. And it all flowed from there. From then. Into that book."

"That didn't happen."

"Oh."