I hereby declare myself a believer of symmetry. The days that dry up our tempest carry the commotion of your lips, because your eyes are worth a thousand years of winter. And all these centuries you’ve flashed before my eyes, while I’ve been mad at you for being exactly like me. It’s the curse of lovers, the hindrance of emotions, the perpetual detriment of action.

You know it will be cold Eastwick, but you don’t have to worry, as I am the one who’ll be left naked waiting for spring to come. Go on and be the word of oil and sprout your seeds into their ground; I’ll be given the anointing of the sick.

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