Cried so much the past few days, and things felt so unmoored and unfair that I let myself get led into temptation. I listened to grown children mourn their mother; the youngest son broke my heart into a thousand pieces. The older son knew just what to do and say to put part of it back together again. We stole some time and sleeping bags and wine and for a few hours we were 17 again and I let the bright stars and half-full moon and bittersweet words convince me I could be forgiven for breaking promises, for having others break vows. That night I stole kisses and beautiful half-truths and remembered what it felt like to be loved fiercely, with a timeless and inarticulate depth that almost promises to subsume its thousand betrayals.  I stole and hoarded every moment, every perfect whispered word, and wanted desperately to stop time, to hold these broken pieces together a little longer, to pretend just a little bit more.  When the sun came up, I saw my spoils in the pale dawn — bitter honey, sweet ashes, an ill-healed scar I’d torn open and its fresh ache — and settled in for a long penance. But I can’t help feeling my sad thefts are merely echoes and iterations of an old, original sin – one I committed when I couldn’t know that I would, with muffled and half-conscious prayers, find myself repeating it for the rest of my days.

Nick Cave and PJ Harvey – Henry Lee

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