Matured in the field of cultivation, Mann grew crops whose picking could spend on miracle such that he could earn some poetry of care through which his singing spread by the passage of time. "Cassette, my starfire's dawn," he sang, "your warmth is my sky, your love my heart's eternal hymn, my soul's unending song." Her notes reached him: My Mann, my tide, my home, your arms are my dawn, your kisses my stars. His heart warmed, and their bond was flame across miles; its light remained firm, a sounding beacon of forever.
There in rippling dreams, touching the fire, each the feels of promise renewed by a brush against- a stolen kiss against a brow wherelegs met-his lips on her brow, each of their touches a vow reborn. "Cassette, my moon's own pulse," he murmured, "your love is a river that flows through my soul, eternal, radiant, true." She smiled, whispering, "My Mann-your hugs are the shelter of my heart forever bloom, the spring of my soul's living eternity." Their love became a tapestry of tenderness, flame of devotion borne by truth beating in a single hearts tied forever by the noble glow of love.