Maria will be at work tomorrow, presumably; one never knows.
She's the most beautiful woman I've seen. If I spiral too close,
Moth to a candle, I'll stagger and stammer, fall to the ground,
And her face, which is flawless, will darken. She'll shun me,
And I will find myself cast into a void, a pasty-faced suitor,
Unsuitable for her, staring as what I've so wanted withdraws.
My world, in other words, might end tomorrow, if she comes
To work, but she maybe she won't. I cannot say that I know.