You, huntress of the depths of my eye and magnifier to the recesses of my heart's lamp. The heart, spell-bound. Such certainty was outshined when your eyes were blinded. A soul, run-down by a song of fatigue against time that stopped winding music. That melody surrounded our hearing with embalming sensory, a nightingale swaying its tunes against the dance of two ordinary lovers.

In the ordinary lies a garden of all the riches of this world. That makes you and me.