Even now, the gardens of our past refurbish themselves in the heat of my ongoing halt against time. Perhaps for someone like me, idyll glimpses of love reside only in the solitude of lyricism, open windows, those comatose streetlights, and the interstate of dreams.
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Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Even now, the gardens of our past refurbish themselves in the heat of my ongoing halt against time. Perhaps for someone like me, idyll glimpses of love reside only in the solitude of lyricism, open windows, those comatose streetlights, and the interstate of dreams.
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