Another night of the same dreams, another morning of the same thoughts. Now another day ahead with the person I least want to spend time with.
I don't understand why I can't let go. Is it so hard to move on? But for me it is, so I continue inflict pain on myself and the person I hold most dear. And that makes me feel so bad. What kind of love is that?
Each day I de construct my life in the same desperate quest for answers. But none are forthcoming and I'm scared.
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Am not getting impression that the dowagers of Ginebra are good for health or sanity. There must be something worthwhile in that godforsaken city of snow and cleanliness? Beyond dishes made of cheese and - well he said it - cuckoo clocks. How are the swans? Is Mont Blanc still white or has it been poisoned by toxic vengeance from a diesel overspill as lorries race to break out of the penitentiary. Chacun a son gout. Luche la bon luche. Leave deconstruction to those weirdo philosophers with wild white hair who mainline red wine on a drip. They àre the only ones who can get away with even pretending to understand it -
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