  Out of time, my mind: a quiver of hours, shooting stars at these unjust powers, and in blowing wind, fly overthorwing every rule that was before. SO, now I've found that golden door, where nothing just as before is sure, save she, my muse, hears me and caring so much that my next words seem daring: Her silkin hair, copper in the noonday sun. Her brown eyes glowing, showing her often to be risen high up above, like Valkyrie, as the turtle dove. 
