For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have a rest.
We’ll go no more a-roving, by Lord Byron
"I walk. I talk. I shop. I sneeze. I'm gonna be a fireman when
the floods roll back. There's trees in the desert since you moved out, and
I don't sleep on a bed of bones."
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