I will
love you as we grow older,
which
has just happened,
and
has happened again,
and
happened several days ago,
continuously,
and then several years before that,
and
will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock
and
the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time,
except
for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind
and
the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area.
I
will love you as we find ourselves farther
and
farther from one another,
where
once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw,
and
the long, slender spoon,
between
our lips and fingers respectively.
I
will love you until the chances of us running into one another
slip
from skim to zero,
and
until your face is fogged by distant memory,
and
your memory faced by distant fog,
and
your fog memorized by a distant face,
and
your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog.
—The Beatrice Letters by Lemony Snicket
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