Would it make any difference if for our love, we died? Punishment
upon us_the sinful but loved. The pride of our desire, the fervour of
our abridged lust, all banished to solitude. Now, only curiosity stands
between us, our naked souls. We, executed for who we are, outcasts
worthy only of each other. Separated and with all elements spawned
against us. Time pulling on our faces and chests and loins as we fade in
wait. Laws over our heads till we die. We died right from the start. We only grow
now in death. Till we die again, to meet again, to live again, for in my
book the black sheep make the finest wool.