So I entered the farm, that great big farm and I heard a song, a sweet grieving song of grief. Great was the lament lining the song. Followed it I did to find Sophia, seated solemn atop a soul grave; weeping, tattered, worn by grief. She said her spirit was split, she said ‘o, my dear, I am weak’.

So I looked all about me, searching a salve. There was Sophia on the plough, Sophia at the mill, Sophia under the cow, Sophia in the soil; Sophia, Sophia, Sophia, she can’t even remember her name. Pouring with pity, I went to her and kissed her, kissed her I did, so deep and impassioned; perhaps, this will be, the Kiss of Life.

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