The customary way to begin a tragedy such as this is with a mournful, damaged character who is the only survivor of some terrible circumstances, recounting the tale with a heavy heart and solemn words. As for this story, I, Julius Lockewood, will begin with-

No, that's not right at all. You needn't my name to read this story, nor my appearance, for I am no one, nothing, and this is a story about someone who was something.

She was as changing as the sea; one moment the calm horizon at midday reflecting a cloudless sky, and the next a torrential, swirling storm that was as captivating as it was deadly, tossing about its victims like useless, weak boats missing their rudders. For a time, I needed no rudder. She was the only direction I needed, my compass- and in her eyes, the map of my world.

Ah, but she was never mine, though we spent countless nights wandering the city, our hands joined as- to the outsider- our hearts. There were never any stars, but I didn't mind, because her smile was the only light I needed.

What was her name, one might ask? Was she of rare beauty or charm, an enchantress, a lovely anomaly? She had no need of a name to be herself, to be remembered, but I always called her-

I digress, once again. Earlier I mentioned that my lady was not mine; this is because she belonged to everyone and no one. She was coveted, needed, desired more than anyone else I had ever knownn, and she didn't chose me.

She bestowed herself upon a man more successful than I, and that was the end of it. Wasted years, crushed feelings. I said goodbye to her. Isn't that a travesty, a beautiful tragedy, because the very day I left San Francisco Bay she threw herself off the Golden Gate and was dead to all.

That would be true, had my lady been a person. Had she been a person, she would have sunk in to the depths, never to be seen again, fingers scraped because those who jump always cling to the edge and try to save themselves in the end.

She could not be killed, for her name was love, and that is the one thing that never dies, never surrenders as bleak as the day may be, and is never forgotten.

So you see, my lady is still here. She is me, and she is in you, she is somebody, something-

I wish I could honestly say that she was an emotion and not a human being, but forgive me, for I've lied. She was a woman, and though she belonged to another, she wore my ring on her finger as if it were a manacle, while she was consorting with another.

Was it a man? No, it was something we all are familiar with, a lurking, insidious fear that is as inevitable as the fall after you throw yourself from a bridge.

Her lover's name was death, and he took her from me in the end, seduced her, defiled her, took the rosy flush from her skin and the light from her eyes, smothered the fire in her heart and slowed the clockwork beating to nothing.

So we end with a mournful, damaged character who is neither something nor someone, and being nothing, paradoxically, must therefore be something after all...