Ice writes the most beautiful poems. He whips them up in a minute or two; I do not know how he does it. I know his poems are breathtaking in their beauty, but really, I do not understand them. I do not understand them, but really, I know that they are beautiful. I tell him that they are lovely like music, that I love them for their haunting melody. Still, I wonder how he feels, being with someone who does not understand. That must wrench his heart.
I wonder what it must be like to understand his poems. I wonder about the phantasmic truths his words hold.
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