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One Love is a penalty. We are punished for not having been able to remain alone. --Marguerite Yourcenar What is the need to refuse that punctuates the seamless hours and separates yes into no? A faint wind, it prefers itself, the madwoman you are afraid to invite to dinner. Quietly you pace your spinster days. Morninglories choke the lintel. You look for your kind in that exile, in that banished exile of solitude. You cannot stay alone like this, facing a reflection of your face you reach out and stumble into your own arms.
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