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04.22.03 . 6:48 p.m.
265: crosses

(I have, all too often, given into to the grandeur of romance that my imagination deftly concocts - fed by late nights of e.e. cummings and sad songs that exit my mouth at the slightest provocation. A friend did say that love is very much like selling your soul, and the only thing I am left wondering these days is how often i can sell my soul then run to steal it back before it becomes worn and irreversibly exhausted.)

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