The reason Coral meant something, the only reason, was because she wasn’t supposed to be real. She was the modern embodiment of the poetry in prose that was so very absent today. It was strange. She was the last guiding light of art in the universe. And I couldn’t touch her for an atrocious reason. It’s brilliant. She was the light I always wrote alongside my words that contradicted and condescended the darkness I saw constantly and consistently. She was not supposed to exist. She wasn’t supposed to be real magic. “She” means I’m real too, and I never wanted that. Coral was fact, rationalism, logic, art, thought, ideas, presumptions; eclipsed into a straight line, and extended just outside of my arms reach. As all dreams should. Otherwise, what the fuck else was heaven supposed to mean.