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February 27, 2007
seraphim was writing her a sonnet.
i watched him put his pen down on his desk as he drowned deep inside his mind. i knew that he would use that sonnet many times, on many other women, and that they would all read it and turn him away. no one ever challenged his debauchery. and he was very sick, i could tell, but i had never used it against him. i had seen his black tongue, but not his black heart. i lied for him to myself.
i did not want to condemn seraphim, but he shone that light on himself.