“What do you mean, ‘It’s not just a name?’”, the Doctor demanded.

He chucked and said, “The Universe is so ironic. It is so absolutely perfect that you, of all creatures, should be unaware of what you really are and so unable to explain the little do you understand to your compainion.”

The Doctor was frozen, poised to speak but without words. How many centuries had it been since he’d been speechless?

He saw the Doctor’s pain and felt some empathy for him. Was this a life at all? In a Universe of tiny, delicate eddies of life emdedded in an an insane nothingness, what was the Doctor? That question must torment him.

Life requires illusion. Everything the Doctor had witnessed tore away at his illusions. Look how desperately he clings to other creatures. It’s as if in sharing a bed with mortals, he could hope to pull their warm blanket of ignorance across himself. I’m sorry, Doctor, that wonderful blanket is too small. You can’t wrap yourself in it without exposing your companions to the cold.