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You. Your presence. Why can I not dip into your presence as I dip into sleep, clasp it and bask in it? How hold it? How savour it? It is more than I wanted. And less. Now you have left—you, in whose presence I would steep, around whose presence I hover like a gull over the lake. And, ere I have tasted it, your presence is no more your presence. You have left. You have returned to me. Your presence no longer disturbs me from you.