Darling, we're doomed to a life of extraordinary regularity. Still, smile, for the world's birthday is today, and it will die as the moon rises. The Force bends, lifts us up from the tedium of madness into an order of monks who let their mole hairs grow long, in order to purify the soul. I breathe, slowly. The world hums beneath me, around me, and within me, and I look to you. You tell me, "Hold me closer," and I listen, afraid of what you might do. Still, I think to myself, "This is nice," as you agree. The angels fall over themselves with laughter, raucous, cruel.