Once there was a boy, loom-born and Academy-taught, who went out into the world with a magical machine, and had adventures. Lots and lots and lots of freaking adventures. In time and space and comics and novels and the occasional TV show. And one day Gallifrey burned, and the Time Lords died, and the Daleks were gone, and Arcadia fell. And I'm pretty sure he died that day, too. And I'm pretty sure the first thing he saw after that was a blonde girl from South London, who took his hand and led him back into the light. And they went everywhere together, up the ramp and down again, and he died. He changed his face. It hurt like hell. And when he came back, they went to Barcelona -- the planet, not the city -- and then back to London, and he learned what a family was like. Things got domestic. Her mom would do things like kiss him right on the mouth. And that South London girl taught him how to love again. He cracked open his chest and let himself take chances and risk oblivion in ways he never had before. She opened doors and left them unlocked, and she knew him. This is what love means; this is what existence demands. And then she died. The ramp down for him, too: she reached up to Heaven and he reached down to Earth, and where they touched, it was magic. He got more human; she got more human, too. He had to let go, without turning back to look, without saying it aloud; and this is also what love means.

But somewhere in the sky, there's a star they followed, and almost everywhere you look, there's somebody they touched, and behind every door, there's a face you haven't met yet; and what we learn from them is that there's nothing so terrible as not taking the chance. Not allowing grace to catch you; not having the grace to accept getting knocked down again, and returning to build. Letting fear build walls the width of Hell. If Hell is the space between worlds, where nothing is -- if the Void ship is the opposite of a TARDIS -- then you already know where Heaven is. Where it always was, where you already are. Look, Americans dream of wolves at the door. The British dream of solitude, and facelessness. You and I dream, when we dream nightmares, of being somehow less than worthy of that grace, that strength, that love. We dream of cages, where nothing is permitted. These dreams are lies.

Jump.