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let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: o no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come: love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. if this be error and upon me proved, i never writ, nor no man ever loved.
she once asked me the name of my favourite poet and i replied
god
she laughed and played along and asked me which one of his works was my absolute favourite
i said it was the one where he wrote her into existence