Give me thirty minutes. Give me a thumping emotion making a noise in my ears, impossible to ignore. Give me a pen, a slip of untouched paper. Give me a few blue ink lines across it to mark my thoughts off. I will give you a sonnet.
Because Shakespeare is the genius I've never lived up to. Because Shakespeare is the inspired force behind my drive. Because writing in iambic pentameter lets you organize what you really mean. There is only one missing piece: I'd never, ever, show them to you, X. You'd never look at m the same.
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