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All night the sound had came back again,
and again falls this quiet,
persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon so often?

Is it that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me something other than this,
something not so insistent
— Am I to be locked in this final uneasiness?

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out of
the tiredness,
the fatuousness,
the semi-lust of intentional indifference.

Until the story are ended by the fate
as what I’ve kept talking.

Be wet
with a decent happiness.