These are the days of my English essays. The days I used to write about when the sky and the rain were as grey as the cold granite outside.
Sunday is never the best of days. This one brings a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist ... a turning towards the past looking towards the future.
Xfe has been away only 1 week, yet it seems as if its been weeks. I'll see him in Paris in 2 weekends time.
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