We belong where we are most loved
She did not care what a ludicrous picture she might be painting, a fat happy old lady in her night gown, swinging on a small little swing in the dead of the night.
Love dies when the lover in us dies. It snaps when the lover in us gives up in defeat. When the cold, practical us takes over the the self-image of us a lover. When the lover in us wins, the practical...
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