Ronan and his prickly fingers, with the desire to dream and create.

You and I, he says, we are full of dreams. The same dreams that lurk on the edge of consciousness and rear up in the vulnerabilities of sleep. We're full of dreams best left forgotten. Every night, we are the transient evil that lurks in the shadows, step by step. And all that which we call into creation is the manifestation of that hidden malignance.

You and I, he says, we are full of nightmares. The same nightmares that leave our world in catastrophe. We're full of monsters best left forgotten. Every night, we are the steadfast desire to destroy that lurks in the head of every man, thought by thought. And all that which we call into creation is the manifestation of that idle perversion.

Gansey and his wide eyes, with the desire to find meaning.

The story goes on, he says, as if my words were not enough. You are searching for a conclusion you will never reach in your lifetime. Where is Owain Glyndŵr? You and all your contemporaries are in a long road to disappointment. Cursed by hope, you will never stop walking. Even in death, you will not find peace. Your soul is restless in more ways than one. Always shifting.

Don't worry, he says, all you have to do is fall asleep. Just fall asleep, nice and easy. It's as easy as dying. You should know. You will wake up soon. You will not know what to do with your shackles free. Who is Gansey? Only a name—a single name encapsulating all your self-worth and hope. That name will never leave you. It will follow you, doggedly besides your shadow. You will wonder why you have been saved if it all led to nothing. You hoped wrong, you will realize.

Adam and his dirt hair, with the desire to break free.

You are the oak tree, he says, who cannot abide the prickly feathers of flight. Your hands and eyes are no longer yours, ill-used and despondent as they were. How long you have waited to truly wake up. You, the magician, but none of the charm and the bright smile of your childhood fancies. No rabbits to pull out of hats, just souls to pluck and play.

Love, he says, is absent and overflowing. A dearth on one side and an excess on another. You cannot reconcile the two, no matter how feebly you stretch out with your long, prickly fingers. You ache in the war-torn sinews of your muscles and in the vicious beat of your heart. That crucible you think you live in is just you in a mortar ground up by a pestle into a red-flecked fleshy-human paste.

Blue and her spiky hair, with the desire to grow beyond the confines of home.

You were not made for roots, he says, but for the flight of migration. Your dreams overspill the small boundaries of your form. Your thirst lays waste to forest streams. Look at the tributaries to find your way to the greater world. All paths lead to home—to the land, to the sea.

Invisible, he says, to the strange and the arcane housed in your life. You began to enshroud yourself in the light of your clothing. Eccentric, you had fashioned yourself into someone new. No, you never really changed, did you? You just threw yourself wide open and basked in the light that would shine upon you. You made yourself into a mirror so no one would overlook you. A bit of this, a bit of that into that amalgam you became. There is a strange kind of loyalty in sticking to you and your old-new self.

Noah and that faded look of his, with the desire to plunge into a world not of his own making but of his own careful manipulations.

Why, he says, I am you and you are me. Incandescent, we are entwined. Luminescent, the black ink of these words shine and the white paper fluoresces ever so slightly.

Let's read a story together, you and I. You and I, we are dead and we rejoice in the freedom granted to us. We have lived for far too long, out of place and fading in the sunlight. We are worn thin. Time is a loose filament in the firmament of reality.

Declan and his All-American smile, with the desire to come home.

This is your story, he says, as much as it is mine. Nobody remembers you as dearly as they remember the others. You are the impression left in sand, swiftly washed away by the incoming tide in the moonlight of despair. You are waiting to wake up but you have yet to realize what you wish to wake up to. The vague idea of a plan simmers in your mind. Once it boils over, you clothe yourself in the dried remnants of your ambition. You leave, but you always come back. Your love is rejected and embraced. You envy them and their adventures, carefree and fraught with the danger of living. So desperate to live.

It's a beautiful world out there, if only you could remember those halcyon dreams of your yesteryears. Your father left an empire for you. Barebones and its skeleton ready to collapse on you with the slightest bit of neglect and abuse. Resentment coils around your heart and twists you bloody when you watch your dear, dear brother Ronan with that strange freedom of his. He dreams the world into life and you—what do you do? Sell the world dreams and hope they never realize how much of a nightmare they really all are. You are the nightmare of the daily drudgery of reality.

A motley ensemble cast and their music, with the desire to live and entwine roots.

In the end, they are triumphant, though not without loss. Goodbye, Noah. Welcome back, Gansey. What to do next, they wonder. Freedom from all the trials and tribulations have left them unbound and drifting in murky waters. Yet a light pierces the dark depths of the waters. Hope springs eternal, a trite sentiment they take courage in. Loneliness slips off their backs, as water beads on feathers.

Awake, the world sings in beauty and ugliness. Flowers bloom until they rot. Annual, perennial, biennial, and all so achingly transient. Hoarfrost skipping along their leaves. Life or death is fleeting but beautiful in that singular moment of bloom. And my, what beauties they were, are, and will be.