lightning turns sawdust

He’s still here, despite every attempt to rid himself of the tight, binding strings of living. That has to have some hidden meaning, some secret trap door that will make him heal. He just falls through -- and then he’s safe, in the TARDIS, with the Doctor, with Tegan. With time and space wholly resting in his hands. He doesn’t have to dream, doesn’t have to fight and scratch himself up beyond humanity’s eye. He’s safe. He is safe, and he feels safe, and he’s ascending from the charred ashes of panic and rising through the air into security. It doesn’t feel like melting; it feels like air. He can breathe. He can breathe. He is the star, newly born. This is rebirth under the calm waters of living; he can stop drowning now.