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And now comes the penance for my screaming good times, my white nights, my illusions. I crawl in bed at night, onto that quarter-acre of silent springs, and my body cries out. I'd sell my left arm to have the right one wrapped around you, my fingers in your hair. My pillows are squeezed to shapelessness, my soul is quietly weeping. And the worst part? I've done this to myself. I dirft through my days, unanchored without you. I stand in front of the mirror, and I remember you once loved, so intensely, this hunk of meat and bone I'm required to carry around. Eating is a chore without you in your silk chef's hat, serving up things I've never even thought of, making me think of them again and again.