Goodnight, Sweet Past, my lover's pail now empty. I fell, smitten by your wisdom and pitiful loneliness. The faint smell of your affair with ancient books swooned me. Your eyes that spoke three languages pierced me daily. One with them, and with yourself, and one with me.
Goodnight, Past, thick with blubbery gifts and night paste.
I died, and when I awoke I found that I was still flying. Naturally.
I am the Soul of the Moon.
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