He was an artist, the first true artist I’d ever met. He made me believe I could be me. The thrill, the liberation of being truly seen for the first time is... intoxicating. I was like a great, stupid child armed with a broadsword, slicing and swiping at everything and everyone. Drunk on the power of being Christ-opher bloody Marlowe. I was insufferable. Finally, not even Barrett could bear me any longer. When he left... the stars extinguished and the sky was so suffocatingly black that I almost expired. But when I pulled myself out from under the weight of my despair, I found I was cold and hard, glittering like a diamond. And I vowed never again to let another human soul pierce my sparkling carapace.