The last page of the novel is written in Italian.
It speaks to me in Greek, underscored with bold italics.
The hero and the heroine are camped out in the valley.
With only unpaid parking fines between them for posterity.
There is no easy answer to a question lacking purpose.
If I were so inclined by its designed intent to hurt us.
I'd tell you where the world stops spinning long enough to linger.
Upon the axis of the psyche all devoid of anger.

And you. You turned me on when I was off.
And you: There are so many things to say 'bout you.
You opened up my heart and took a room. And it's true. I love...

This chapter in the novel tears the flesh straight from my fingers.
Yet in the early morning hours, you were there to mend them.
I love you in a way that can't recall a prior knowledge.
Yet somehow we both know that this will just be one more linkage.
Too many times have pens clung to my brain in search of respite.
Too few times have I made any attempt no to affect it.
An empty bowl of cherries sits beside a roaring fire.
Yet somehow we both know that this will just be one more linkage.

And you. You turned me on when I was off.
And you: There are so many things to say 'bout you.
You opened up my heart and took a room. And it's true. I love...

Turn off the television, close your eyes so I may kiss them.
The purpose of the words, I found, is to embrace translation.
We'll make up an ending. Just a simple one is needed.
About a boy who loved a girl.

And you. You turned me on when I was off.
And you: There are so many things to say 'bout you.
You opened up my heart and took a room. And it's true. I love...
You: There are so many things to say 'bout you.
You opened up my heart and took a room. And it's true. I love...