Perhaps to fashion out of this an ending that there is a cure for this restlessness in the soul? In which case the act of conformity is translated from the shadows of the left and forgotten into an illuminating transcendence? To achieve something more than this, bitterness? Something more. Something good. Something worthy of love and time and effort.
And she worries whether she is unworthy of her name. If she is not, then I am even more so. For we have the same names.
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