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Pure opulence, was my first cliched, yet apt thought. The glistening chandeliers, the clink of crystal against crystal, the fake laughter a
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Buzzing along the horizon1
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The soft satin cushions separated us and I reached out for his absent fingers. Sitting here in blissful silence, I explored the contours of
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I have sore eyes and a red nose from all the sobbing. I am sitting here beneath my blanket, night has descended and I cannot sleep through grief.1
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A painter and his muse ponder on their relationship.
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The flowers lay on the table, already wilting for their lack of water. I couldn't bear to read the note fastened to their stems.1
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