Except he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell his love to simply go fuck itself. It had become his everything, it consumed him to such a degree that his life in the past years and most likely, his life going forward, could only be described as a love letter. In red ink on red parchment, glowing brightly against the desolate backdrop of a bleak, grey world.  A world that can go fuck itself. I dedicate the rest of my life to you, my love. However many acts there are left of it.