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She had everything she wanted; all she had to do was convince herself that she wanted very little.
For the arrogance and the futility of remaining alive, the ridiculousness of it, the stench of it, the unreasonableness of it.
Why does the mention of love, the memory of love, the memory of love lost, the promise of love, the end of love, the absence of love, the burning, burning need for love, need to love, result in so much violence?
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