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I would push my brush laiden heavy with paint colored red. It is the blood from the wound of a heart that was broken. A mountain of thick paste grows in front of my hastened yet unyielding path. With that same will, my heart will not fall; my love will be known again if by no one but me. And in its wake, a path, A trail, A remnant, A memory, A reminder. A mark for me to see. A smooth, soft, faltering but permanent memory of where I had been and where I’d never stray again- and again and again.