And if they thought her aimless, if they thought her a bit mad, let them. It meant they left her alone. Marya was not aimless, anyway. She was thinking.
“Don’t worry,” Marya whispered, kissing his forehead. “My old bones will follow yours soon enough.
Marya pinned out her childhood like a butterfly. She considered it the way a mathematician considers an equation.
How I adore you, Marya. How well I chose. Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me.
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