The desert sands were black. The light was brilliant, crystalline, in a dark sky filled with stars.
“I’m almost sure I made you up,” said the writer, with an air of accusation.

DO YOU RECALL ONCE WRITING THAT HUMANS NEED THEIR FANTASIES?
“Yes.”
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN THIS IS ESPECIALLY THE CASE.
The writer considered this, and nodded. He hitched his floppy hat.
The dark figure beside him did the same. The writer gave the dark figure a look.

I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A NICE CHANGE.
A capital-L Look.
PERHAPS I’LL JUST STICK WITH THE COWL, THEN?
They walked toward the horizon, in no particular rush. Last minutes need not hurry.
“I was forgetting things, towards the end,” the writer reflected, after a time.
“But I think some of those jokes were rather clever.”

I WOULDN’T WORRY, MR. PRATCHETT, said the figure, not unkindly.
THERE ARE PLENTY WHO’LL REMEMBER.