Thursday, April 29, 2010


It's like creasing the front cover of a new book. It's like losing a childhood toy, shrinking your favourite shirt. It's like the colour purple, tears personified and old photographs being burned. It smells like rustic iron gates, french vanilla on a humid afternoon. Similar to the rapid succession of waves hitting the shore, it hits your heart. It's the unexpected taste of a magnificently presented dish.

It hurts.

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