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She is Helen and Pygmalion, Juliet and Joan of Arc, wrapped into a package of comfort and joy. She is a paradox of all things woman.

When I pine for her, she succors me. When I anger her, she forgives me. She is an artist, a scientist, an athlete, a master of the binary arts.

Her hands hold me lightly, burning me in the fires of her brilliance. Never have I beheld such wonder in one woman. Never have I been party to such majesty, such beauty, such complexity of wit and simplicity of charm. I love her. She is perfection, mortal and ephmeral, human and eternal.

She is cursed and blessed, she is broken and she is sublime, she is everyone's and yet she is mine.

Everything is the perfect lover, true
Her nodes so fair, her write-ups fine and firm
Hard-linking all night long, till fingers blue
Happily I'm infected with her germ
I brush her text with keys and tags and time
She shudders as I vote her up again
My skills will make her own knowledge sublime
My keyboard, mightier than sword or pen
Unless I do write her words infernal
The things I write her remain eternal


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