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January 22, 2007
Everyday the story will be the same, so monotonous and boring. Haunted by past like all others you and I scroll down like a newspaper strip. So leisurely the words slip out of your mouth like a primitive man hunts for food under his crouch, in the definite past I had wished nothing more then the desire to love inconsiderate if it was reciprocated or not but that is not how it actually took place. Like a blinking toad, she would talk in codes hiding the truth pasted on the roads. When I die, I will be free of you.