From the well, beloved ones. We bleed. In three. Their favourite self-fulfilling prophecy. They stole our seed but we'll steal it back. We're bright and white and big and black. We're the ever-lasting way to pray. The parted sighs of Lady Day. Amble's pre, all for the play. Everything we couldn't say. A truly terrifying kind of gentle. If fate were only ever incidental. Punch drunk, pitch-perfect, and perturbed as hell. Thieves with wares and a den to sell. Inside out and back to fronting; our chill was only ever stunting. Raising glasses or raising Cain? Those dark delights when days remain. Dear God. That I were able to close my eyes. If cries...if cries could laugh and sorrow shattered, to find the only things that mattered. See, he died too early, yet born again. The sword, the table, the mighty pen. I pray my girls can dream, attend. This blessing ever after. Now seed-born tree; curated spaces. The bloom of such familiar faces. Of good, of evil, of all betwixted flights. Silver tongue of ancient shepherd, amid as many nights. Kay is quite the learned angel. Those pinnacles of brow. A mother-daughter shorthand, remembered even now. Passion. Worlds apart and coming stars; a hostage of the furies. Still blinded by the son.