How ironic that I am made to ceaselessly stir at her resting,
Tossing and turning about the implications in my head,
Placing them to the heat of examination. Her death makes an ominous omelet,
and I keep cooking it. How long 'til I burn the light and myself out?
Perhaps she's unresting, and that's why I'm writing.
Perhaps she has just positioned me more directly against rest.
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