that's that, and this is this



⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢺⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠆⠜⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⠛⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠻⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⡏⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⣤⣤⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣦⣤⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣷⣄⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⡧⠇⢀⣤⣶⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣮⣭⣿⡻⣽⣒⠀⣤⣜⣭⠐⢐⣒⠢⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣾⣿⠂⢈⢿⣷⣞⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣿⣿⣷⣶⣾⡿⠿⣿⠗⠈⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠻⠋⠉⠑⠀⠀⢘⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⢹⣿⣿⡇⢀⣶⣶⠴⠶⠀⠀⢽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⠀⠀⠣⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡟⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⣧⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⣴⠁⢘⡙⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⢿⠗⠂⠄⠀⣴⡟⠀⠀ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿


I have nothing but my sorrow and I want nothing more.
It has been, it still is, faithful to me.

Why should I begrudge it, since during the hours
when my soul crushed the depths of my heart,
it was seated there beside me?

O sorrow, I have ended, you see, by respecting you,
because I am certain you will never leave me.

Ah! I realize it: your beauty lies in the force of your being.
You are like those who never left
the sad fireside corner of my poor black heart.

O my sorrow, you are better than a well-beloved:
because I know that on the day of my final agony,
you will be there, lying in my sheets, O sorrow,
so that you might once again attempt to enter my heart.