The cold sends a chill through my body all the way to my very sinews.
It's the middle of summer.
I am tired of writing about her. This fraudulent captivity of a love long lost. It is a preoccupation of everything and every subject I hold with a veil of contempt; my morbid, murky and, more importantly, childish disobedience to what I want.
Yet I still bob my head to its music. Waiting, wishing, yearning for it to hear me. Or to see my dance; my movements, carefully thought out. All to its tune.
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