Here's another one of those things I wrote for class that works too well into this fandom. I had a certain pair in mind when I wrote this, so if anyone can figure that out, that'd be fantastic. And I am strictly canon. Here's the feedback link if y'alls want it.

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We

We are a paradox. Our two halves—hacked through time by some elegant network, dispatched into the small arteries of our heart—are two separatenesses clinging to what the system left behind after its first cut did encode us into a whole. And the blood runs, from right to left, from me to you, from the knife and from the cut; we are a drowning specimen of bloody muscles; we lay on a newspaper bed; we are lost.

You restrain your violent fist with the silky canopy of secrets, a recipe that fuses the what is me to the what is you. I imagine our adventure, our journey into the lining of our burgundy jungle, a compacted atrium of baobab inviting us into a pyramid stuffed with childhood and simple natures. I have mapped the you and you have mapped the I, and we are not the same. But with our matching palms, our variations do not disenchant what I have fancifully imagined. No, you and I, we are the same.

While you and I do not own this “we”, so long as you and I think of this passionate love, this “us” as part of this “we”, the two are one. You and I, are “we”, this “we”, our “we”.

And here we can see that time and life are not as desperately wound round one another as we imagined. They are two organs of the same body, subject to the well-placed cut of a knife if they do not ease apart. While they too have arteries and veins pumping from one to the other, they have no right and left, no bivalve shape to mislead. They are not two halves of one whole, they are not part of each other, they do not love.

This simple variation separates time and life from us: we are no longer part of the same empire, the same system. We have never belonged so much apart from the rest of the whole; our neat shape will not be human or animal, we will have no position. We are not on the map.

Time and life are exit wounds, slugs of the same pistol that clot our heart along the Rue de Rivoli. And the blood runs, and we are here, and we are one, and I love you.