There is a bullet for every heart, a line of sight abeading those reborn to life a prison, when once a god fell to persuading mere mortals, that some one alone possessed the only key. But now, Mein Deariest, who would refuse the return upon such precious matters of life and love as they have thought mete to do to us with Ours, flaunting where they have gotten way to paths beyond even sovereign Justice, whom We steeled Our nerves in befriending. Some solace for Us who are never shamed of having loved, but are put to shameful disport whenever some once happens to pass the truth on without a filter, and those for whom Our love is fateful become all in a sudden a lasting disappointment to themselves, for which there are no more remedies, nor even the slightest hope of reprisal: Mercy is the last token of an eternal love. Let Us take care never to claim of love Our lover’s impoverishment. This they have done in beautification, as a surer method of gaining the upper rooms, wherein love has kept back from every lover what that cannot be so much as wagered among Our finest and most closely guarded possessions. For who would dare to fathom a love born of soul must have risked as much in the wagers now tallying the toll which a full gambit has paid them, in the futures of more lovely miens, with arms made better just to have them embrace ’em.