““Then she decided she was ready to die. But before she did, she asked the poets to record these moments in song, and the architects to carve the song in marble, and the marble to be extracted from the most secret veins of the earth and placed where no man could see it, because that is the nature of love, because one walks alone through the ruins of the heart, because the young must sleep with their eyes open, because the angels tremble from so much beauty, because memory moves in orbits of absence, because she holds her hands out in the rain, and rain remembers nothing, not even how it became itself.””
