Mark your days, ye fools in love. Mages all, rulers all of time, that wretched accountant of days. Use the graphite of your hugs to leave endless columns on his book.
Mark your days, ye fools in love. Tempests all, storm clouds all of sleep, that duplicitous storekeeper of lies. Use the fat drops of your kisses to bismirch the lines of his book.
Mark your days, ye fools in love. Armies all, generals all of loss, that somber steward of malice. Use the boots of your words to drag mud across the pages of his book.
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