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Still I would want to be someone who’d answer to me:
Someone who sees like a child, gives like a saint,
feels like an angel — never mind the broken wings,
and speaks like a picture, cries like the rain, shines like a star,
as long as the fire remains.

...

I am coming home to you with my own blood in my mouth.
And I am coming home to you if it’s the last thing that I do.

...

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Excuse me, are you lost? Perhaps you would care to visit the site map

timshel.

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tag: creeping lovely

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