Even a bookstall harbors the energy of a huge bookshop, books falling off its edges. You and I fell off a bench once. Gravity tricked me into thinking that it was fate, love, us, falling. . .
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Every good story starts with a dead mother. Nothing worth doing is possible until she dies.
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She stands at the mirror, staring at her reflection for what seems like a long time, waiting to see how quickly the puffiness will go down, learning that the answer is not fast enough. . .
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