If I were obliged to write down what perfect Sunday mornings could be like, I might have wanted to get up and find some paper and a pencil when, after a few minutes of this, I realized it might never happen so adequately again
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Amidst the cold, amidst a patch of fallen leaves, i might find you in a cemetary breeze...
anonymous
November 13 2003, 13:58:05 UTC
Couldn't decide, but brought myself to anyways. A million miles away, and still a lingering thought. A steady hand, and a nervous stomach make little room for conversation.
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