Alchemists, behold.
I have found your precious gold.
I have found the fleeting fame of immortality.
It isn't found in baser metals,
But rather in the ink;
The blood of the souls of ideas.
My pages stem from me,
A lifeblood to my thoughts,
As it ever was and evermore shall be.

I adopt these begotten thoughts which I had forlorn before I kept.
Some inevitably left me behind,
To never quite be forgot.
They'll follow me eventually,
And catch me in some quiet unexpected café.
Do you remember me?
Will you remember this?
Or will I fade again this time
Into your mind's abyss?

I must stop.
Before all the oceans of ink
That are in my heart
Dry up before they bleed.

A tragedy.
Or perhaps a romance, a comedy.
We would never know.