We are have many stories. But all stories are one.

Amy. Or Annie.

We thought that the end is the end. Or the beginning of the end.

Who never thought that each end represents a new beginning?

I thought that this was the end. In the end?

I was rewarded with something else. Precious. Important. Unending.

We all affect one another. In ways we understand, and in ways that we don’t.

And this is ceaseless. Unending.

It is supple like water and limitless like air.


Even lost love is love. Even unrequited love is love. Even love, is love.

Ceaselessly, endlessly.



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