Alone.

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I live alone, locked in a hedge maze of my own devising. I tend the paths lovingly. I look to the sky and wonder if there could have been another life for me, a life of love and wonder and possibilities. I am monastic. I am shy. I am cloistered. It is better that I am alone than to misstep.

I live alone in a priory deep in the enchanted woods. I wear a red cloak. I gather herbs. I tend to my rabbits and fowl. In the long nights, I work tirelessly by candlelight, illuminating manuscripts. I do not sleep. I think of the love I gave up. It is better this way. I am here with my god of silence. I am complete.

I live alone, high atop a mountain in a small abandoned temple festooned with ribbons and banners, prayerwheels. I go barefoot. At first, the rocks cut my tender feet. I jump from stone to stone like a wild goat. Sometimes I think of dashing myself on the rocks far below. But then I look up at the Great Blue Sky and I laugh. I dwell here in my warm scented skin for all eternity.

I live alone in a ruined villa by the sea. It rains so often here that my tears blend in. I spend long hours at the piano, obsessively perfecting a cycle that no one will ever hear, least of all my lover. You will never hear it, love. I keep it inside me. This dark passion is only for me and you will never know it. I will die before you know it.

I am alone, but I choose it. It is better to be the sovereign of my pain than to share it with you.

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