Even rough Magic can flame amazement.
Blades of yellow grass lick at my stomach, as Birnam Wood looms large.
Things that love night love not such nights as these.
The Fool met Viola at a crosswalk, as the light turned emerald-green.
And it appeared to all the world that she was dead.
The storm was over, but its traces were far from gone.
I’ve scarcely lived yet, and I intend to do so.
And as lightning scarred the sky, and thunder sounded all around, and rain pelted the earth, something impossible happened.
Her vision of the future narrowed. It darkened into a tunnel.
Misery does not love company. But it does love memory.
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