Run away, little girl. It is all you are good for.

Do you think if you run fast enough, the world shall simply go away? Think, if you must, that when you next look over your shoulder, we shall not be there. But we shall. Flee to your fantasies and your closeted misery. She that chooses not to invest in others, shall live, and run, and be, and die, alone.

So run away, little girl. Run hard. Run fast. We of reality and responsibility do not have the luxury of hiding. That is for the children, and the dead. We who love, and are loved, cannot afford to cast our looks aside and pretend, and wish, the adult world gone. The fetters and chains that pull at your feet are the product of your own cowardice, not of the shadows at your back.

So run. And keep running. And when you do finally deign to look back over your shoulder again, I shall still be there. Here. Waiting, waiting. Always waiting.

I forgive, little coward. But I shall not pretend to understand.