We've travelled around a lot over the years,
from case to case,
questionable motel to questionable motel,
driven by your insane theories and a series of nearly
identical rental cars,
and between your claims of phantom aliens
and my attempts to talk some sense into you,
I'd wonder:
What if we stopped the car,
turned around,
and left it all behind?
I don't want that anymore.
I mean,
it's too late for me-
I've stopped and the choice wasn't mine to make.
My reflection shows dull skin and thinning hair
and I blame the men who hide behind dark suits
and cigarette smoke.
This web of conspiracies has tangled around us and threatened
to kill us and it's choking me, Mulder.
But you're still alive.
Start destroying that web
and don't stop don't stop.
I'll miss rolling my eyes at the things that you say,
and I fear that you'll be left with nothing
nothing but ashes
at your feet because they'll be no one there to stop you.
But I'm comforted
because even if you'll have nothing, you'll have
all the more to gain.
Even empty spaces fill with dust,
eventually,
and even if you'll be collecting the things the world discards,
at least you'll have something.
Now rise from my bedside and leave this damned room.
Push the doctors and nurses and oncology wards
out of your life.
There's nothing more you can do.
But should the sun rise and you're still here,
and my hand is limp in yours,
and won't move again,
it'll still be okay.
Just don't stop don't stop don't stop.