Perhaps, on that faithful Wednesday night, when i was all but certain that i knew what fate had installed for us, i began to change. Somewhere deep down i always knew that my quill was an oracle, the fortune teller disguised as a poet veiled behind the mask of a mediocre man, and as soon as the light of the crescent moon shined upon your sleepless face and as soon as your arms embraced my shivering carcasses i was reminded of a different prophecy. Your stained shirt, which you wore again and again never cleansed, your face bare of any concealment, you truly became the moon promissed in Sylvia plath's poems. Never had i seen you as such before. That night i came to conclude the fate of Eurydice, to bid farewell...