Her mind lives tidily, apart from cold and noise and pain. And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.
I give her sadness and the gift of pain, a new moon madness and a love of rain.
I find her anecdotes more efficacious than sheep-counting, rain on a tin roof, or alanol tablets.... you will find me and Morpheus, off in a corner, necking.
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