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There is little honour amidst rolling hills’ briar-thickets & holly hedges; they are ever at odds. Foolish be it to think otherwise. Verdant though such brambles be, never found together, branchlets entwined, are their blooming buds – never. Like music from silence their separation emboldens fertile melody, and makes satisfying moments from despondent dissonance—expectation trumping resolution—grown fonder by absence; tis order from chaos stillborn in their union, and so poisonously the laurels wreath.