As soon as you have grown up you learn about the existence of visual rhymes.
But, until some pivotal moment later in life, you continue to believe that maybe sometimes in the past they really were perfect rhymes. That they began their life truly similar and it transpired only afterwards that their paths diverged due to some unfortunate vowel shift. That the Poet who put them together really intended and meant that togetherness. You fool yourself like this and you try to distort the language by reading the innocent Words in a most unnatural and laughable way — just to reunite them in your ears. Just to make them rhyme again.
Then one morning you wake up with the resigned knowledge that those rhymes are indeed just visual, and have always been. And you are sad because the follies of your youth are gone, but you console yourself with the benefits of your newly granted wisdom.
And then one night you wake up screaming, because in your dream you have glimpsed for a second a world where all rhymes are visual and none is phonetic. From that night onwards you will forever be afraid to fall asleep again.
Dies and is reborn. Dies ist keine Richtung, nur reine Bewegung. Dies iræ! Dies illa.
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