Yeah, all that crap I said last year, two years ago, about how I was going to want that pain, to keep, to remember, to feel, when I was old and on morphine?

Stricken from the record.

I'm glad it happened, that I was torn to the ground that I might rebuild, that it made me strong enough to endure this, everything, his starshine eyes and arms so tight, love is agony.

I must write, remember, so that when I am old and feeble-fingered I will not forget what I could feel.

(Though he says, he says, and I dare not hope, that I will not need to remember because he will be there to remind me.)

All the cliches are fucking true, and I'd follow him to hell and back.