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Thereíll be no more end to your sorrow. Loveís ana, below is above. For souls, it is never tomorrow: thereíll be no more end to your love. The soul lives in spirals, and travels the landscapes of passionate time with perfect recall. It unravels what bodies leave buried in grime: the hope that the world would surrender its manifold space to your dreams, your green prelapsarian splendour of love, and the broken ravines of grief that the world wouldnít honour: itís there, with your earliest heart, and nothing you grieve for is gone. A dimension canít keep you apart.
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