the museum of broken dreams...

   'Tell me,' he said after he composed himself and could muster his words.
   How can I? I, the prisoner without chains, the steward of memories. I, the old, broken man with a handkerchief.
   I cannot, I hear myself tell him. It is...ineffable.
   He gave a mirthless chuckle. 'What was it I saw? You know it. I can see it in your eyes.'
   Of course I knew. I saw as he did, through his very eyes. How can I explain what words can never?
   Can I ask you a question? I heard my voice ask.
   'Yes, you can. Will I answer, that's a different story.'
   I like this man. I want him to pass where I did not.
   If you could go back and change it, all of it, the one you never had, the book that never was, the love that changed everything and was lost, would you?

   He asked, 'If you could go back and change it, all of it, the one you never had, the book that never was, the love that changed everything and was lost, would you?'
   Would I? Could I?
   I remember seeing her when I returned from the army in another's arm.
   I remember the dream of being a writer, not an engineer who writes, but a writer.
   I remember her cold, blue lips that I kissed hoping to bring her back, the gray cheeks were my tears fell.
  
   I asked him what I was asked. His eyes disappeared behind clouds, and I knew he would fail.
   How can I explain the paradox of my feelings? I want to escape and be free from my eternal role, but I don't want another to take my place, not especially him.
   He answered, after a lifetime.

   Yes, I wo-