Pain. Death. I don't want to go? I guess he was right, but …
I've gotten to old and sentimental. I haven't gone heartless or bad, no not at all really. I'm like a grandparent who lets his grandchild eat every last one of the cookies from the jar when I would never let my first-born. I've gotten too old and sentimental. Whatever happened to not rewriting history, not one line of it? They want something done; I give it to them, no matter the cost, no matter the paradoxes. I don't care about the consequences and it is ripping time apart. But I can't stop. Because they want it; because I care too much.
Whatever happened to "You can't rewrite history, not one line"? Time can be rewritten, over and over until the paper bleeds and wrinkles. What happens then? You throw the book away. Why did I think I could be an author, why did I let them become authors? It's dangerous, this kindness business. I've caused crack after crack, paradoxes, changes, memories looping onto memories, déjà vu throughout the stars. I can't fix everything! It's not my job. I observe. I teach. I was a teacher; I was never meant to make you all better, or happy. I've gotten too old and sentimental. But they were all so wonderful, and I couldn't say know, you wonderful human beings, with your capacity to love.
I will do better. I will go back. I will go forward, no giving in, no exceptions. I cannot break time for the sake of a happy ending. There will be pain and sacrifices and I must be cold, must let the ice grow. My life bleeds out and the next one will be better. I must be better for the sake of the universe, and so I must be colder than the blackest portions of the universe, no exceptions, no companions. And I must live.
The regeneration. It's always painful, Clara. And not so soon, not like this. I'm a sad old man Clara. Just tell me to take you home. Tell him, one last request before …