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A mirage of vibrant colour in the night sky danced around the figure of a lone man. Rain beat hard unto his shoulders as he stared out into the River Mersey, papers fisted tightly in his shaking hands. Papers crumbled into his fists longed for freedom and his unyielding attention- hopelessly alone and lost to the unknown, he tore up the drawings, throwing them with all his might into the ocean, watching the strong wind take the shreds and disappear into the salty air. 

His body quivered as he tried not to weep. The week had been long and hard, and this was just the dramatic end to yet another horrible day. He had lost all hope on ever feeling the bright relief of laughter and happiness again when a euphoric melody swept through the chill air. He turned sharply against the metal rail that separated him from the angry ocean; he looked around desperately for the angelic singing, longing for the feeling it was slowly enticing out of him. And so he finally saw; a shape of bright light coming towards. A human shape, a male shape, of wondrous white gold light reached towards him as notes of music flowed out from the stranger. The light neared him but never stopped its flowing movements.

Hands wrapped around his clenched fists gently, but tightly. Swirling him around with him as he danced to unknown music John couldn’t hear. He had no intention of moving along with the stranger but his feet moved and danced; ignorant of his protesting mind. He stammered in confusion at the dark-haired stranger but no words came out in an intelligible fashion. The stranger laughed, pearls of divine laughter, brighter and lovelier than anything he had ever heard; and with a quick and delirious peck quickly to John’s lips, he disappeared as quickly as he arrived with no sign of considerations of John’s protest and wishes for names and information about the bewitching stranger that vanished into the fog like the beam of a lighthouse.

He was all John could think of the following days that followed. He wandered the promenade every chance he got- forsaking his family and friends (and more importantly his work) for the search of this intrusion in his otherwise downtrodden but peaceful life. For this man that had so suddenly appeared and left him with a hard weight in his chest- of something long loved and lost. He had to find him! No matter what it took! He was all could think about- he yearned so desperately to hear that singing and feel the lips of the angelic melody again on his lips. 

That desperation- his obsession- had left his place of work in disarray. But he did not care- his absence was not unusual to his friends, and his boss who showed only hot-faced anger whenever John deigned his time worthy to show up. John cared not, and knew his position there was too important for him to be fired. His boss, Spector, too cheap to pay up for anyone more loyal to his work than John. For John it was the money and his friends (Ringo, George and Stu) that kept him there for as long as he had- but it was soon to be all for nought as he had completely forgotten that dingy little studio’s existence for the higher purpose of finding the lively stranger that still lingered in his mind.

One Mr Epstein, (Eppy for short as John resented such formalities and displays of authority), had become a beacon in his search for his new found muse- drawings now scattered around every inch of his apartment, sketches and paintings of his dark hair, feminine lips and baby doe eyes. John’s fingers stained with paint and ink from his chaotic hurry in sketching down every last feature of the stranger, lest he forgot his face entirely. 

It was between his first tumultuous meeting with Eppy and the second more relaxed one that he met the stranger again. He had danced around John as they followed each other to an abandoned nightclub, decayed to its structural bones, his eyes bright with laughter and joy. His name was desperately begged for and, after a brief hesitation that John noticed not at all, he introduced himself as Paul… Paul. John knew he could die happy now with the utterance of that name. Paul. A simple name, yet it was the most stunning thing he had ever heard. Paul.

The night disappeared quickly as they danced and laughed as they had never done before. John felt a lightened feeling rise in his chest- something that had been amiss for so long. Happiness. Paul had brought it back to him by his presence alone and when left alone John felt an abundance of creative motivation. He sketched and drew and painted like he had never done before. The dark brown hair and hazel immortalised on canvas so John may never forget such beauty. Paul tells him nothing more but that- his name. His sparkling name. And though the curiosity gnaws and begs, he ceases in his pleas for anything more and simply revels in being with Paul for as much as he can.

It wasn’t until he stumbled upon the old man, Eppy, again and was invited to the peculiar old man’s estate that was slowly wasting away into the ground, lost in time with only a single aging man to keep it company. Eppy had, once, been a very popular and sought after man. Young, dancing around town, listening to all kinds of music wherever he went. It was out on one of those ‘escapades’ that he met a young man- his name going unmentioned.  He talked of how they had spent all their days together but something had broken them up, something too painful to repeat. And now he was all alone, with John as his only company- something John thought quite pitiful. There existed far more exciting people to hang around than him. 

Next time he saw Paul, it was far from joyous. They had started arguing, heatedly so (though it was rather one sided as John did most of the yelling and aggressive posturing). Paul, not long after they had entered John’s humble abode, had sat John down and told him they no longer could see each other. That it was wrong and in the end would only end in pain. Why?Something that still burned in John’s mind. Why? Paul had come out with the revelation that he was a muse, something straight out of mythology and, of course, John’s immediate reaction wasn’t to believe his love but rather laugh at the big joke it could only be and nothing else.

But it had been true. Paul, frustrated and desperate for John to believe him, made everything that seemed right wrong and everything that seemed wrong right- turning John’s world upside down in his (successful) attempts at making John believe him. Magic existed. Mythology was true. But John couldn’t, hadn’t, the words, or the time, to express his regret in ridiculing Paul for his statements that turned out to be so true for the muse, and love of his life, had left him as soon as John’s belief flashed upon his face. John had ran after him but it wasn’t enough for Paul vanished before his eyes and out of his life.

But John wasn’t a man to easily give up. He scoured through his mind for everything Paul had ever said, anything to could help him in his search for his muse. He yelled and screamed at Epstein for any help- the man seemingly knowing more than he let on about Paul. His emotions and energy high as he stormed the city till he came past the pier were all that were ending had started. He fell to his knees as he saw Paul there- luminous as ever, twice as pretty. Everything around him disappeared as he begged and pleaded with Paul- to let him back into his heart. That they could work it out- work out whatever being a muse meant. What it meant for the two of them. 

And he did. John counted his lucky stars and held his breath as Paul, bright and smiling, stepped towards him and pulled him up with pale and soft hands. Pulling him into a gentle kiss as the sun rose with their love.