Too many brides.

"From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded

A plaintful story from a sistering vale,

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,

And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,

Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain. (...)"

William Shakespeare.

Take it all because I just don't care anymore. Take everything I am, everything I aim to be. Take my blood and flesh, take my bones and my hair, take my eyes, take ideas and plans, it all belongs to you, I'm nothing but a soul and this soul belongs to you.

Mademoiselle Juliettè,

All my dreams you can make real. All my fears you can make happen.