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Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that’s all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. Life has to end, she said. Love doesn’t.
- Marguerite
Post-traffic into Manhattan
Gotham view of NYC
Chillin’
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