[ as if understanding quentin's concern, eliot's next words follow: ] It's not really a goodbye, you know. Sure, I think that's what people would like for it to be, since it's sailing off into the distance and away from you, but deep down, I think we all know that it's as impermanent as any other attempt from before.

[ really, if it were so easy to be rid of all those regrets, eliot thinks he could have maybe even liked himself before he ended up here. no, nothing ever really leaves. you just learn better to take only what you need from it, and let the rest of the pain subside.

what he says next is one of those rare moments, where he actually submits to the notion he might know more than he deigns himself to know as someone who isn't a nerd. only nerds can really be good magicians though. that's just how it works. ]

You know, in some cultures, they actually write messages to send because they think their loved ones will end up seeing them.

We can only watch the boats sail away, but. Maybe somewhere. Far, far away from where we could see or. Even feel. Maybe they can see the boats sail in. And maybe they're waiting every day, hoping for that ship with their name on it to come to shore.