I need a Muse. One that could tell me everything. Someone who will stop and start me, who will love me, who will need me. Someone that I need. I want to marry my Muse. Or at least live in sin 'till I die.
Or maybe I could never be with my Muse, but they'd still be there for me.
The emotional growing pains might make me write more.
In the final days, in the time before the Final Reckoning, We were not whole. We were Is, scattered throughout the sinful world.
In the time of the Final Reckoning, when cities were swept beneath the waves, when the sky poured fire and ice and punishment upon the corrupt, there was an I.
I waited, in the reservation, in the doorway of the great cathedral, the sanctuary of Notre Dame.
I waited for him, and the priests prayed and again and again, begged for me to close the doors, for the rising water to sweep me away and save them and their church. But I waited.
I did not think he would come. I thought he was dead. The skies were crying, and I was crying too. After all, hadn't we been told since adolescence, since budding hormones, that what we were was wrong and hideous and sinful? Wasn't it?
Perhaps this was God's punishment for us, I remember thinking, weeping, pretending that I cried because the salt winds stung my face and not because I knew I had lost him.
But I wouldn't close the doors. Not until the very last, when the skies opened up sunlight and music and I lost myself, and him, when we became.
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