Books are safes for valuable words. Little treasures that weave themselves into stories, facts, emotions, knowledge, where reality and fantasy mingle freely, giving birth to a singular being whose power is to teach, to entertain, to mirror, to make one dream.
     With a snap, Captain Picard closes the leather binding before the dream becomes a little less stargazing and a little more hope, sealing within the wealth of feelings and secrets hidden between those words, the tiny spaces where he poured something of himself to fill in the blanks. It is foolish to try to describe the shape of what is thus locked inside, to let this precious creature become physical. Yet it will not be tamed and remain only an illusion.
     It is both real and unreal, and it will have to remain so for the sake of the past and the present, both tangible, and the future, the immaterial of what could be. A delicate balance, a fine line he walks upon through time, afraid that one false step will make him tip over. Because one possibility is too desirable, the other is unthinkable.
     To have her, or not to have her. That is the question to which there will never be an answer.