"I try to be fulfilled. But even in sleep I'm not safe," I say, shuddering.
"No one is ever safe. Not from themselves," he says, his voice sorrowful. "I wish I could tell you my protection will fix all your problems- but it won't. There is no miracle cure for suffering: not even the gods have that power. But please, remember this: I will be there for you. I will always do what I can."
"Thank you," I whisper. "But my brain is diseased. Sometimes I wonder if you're my own inner demon given life. My sickness personified."
But of course he is, and this is a dream, and Samael is just ink on a page, the bound muse in my head.
A schizophrenic's personified gun.
The desert demon of the Samiel wind.
I laugh bitterly. "I know that you're a delusion. I'm an idiot, aren't I? I've taken the devil on my shoulder and made him into my friend. You're not real, I'm talking to myself."
