There was something in the way that she made him feel so foolish, like an old man desperately clinging to any illusion of youth. He knew full well that it was pointless, futility at its finest, but that something pushed him forward nonetheless. Her innocence was her most attractive quality to him, it drew on his starry-eyed memories in a way that only bourbon had before. But where the bourbon left him forlornly apathetic, she left him longing; longing for a way to capture the gaze of those starry-eyes. Longing to believe that such notions belonged outside of Hollywood and his dreams. Longing for time, itself, to rip in twain and leave him as something more than an old fool.