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The Importance Of Love In My Life

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Doesn’t it ever hurt you? How things so big take their time taking piece by piece of what is left of your broken heart. How the wicked tick of time can turn you into sand. How the work works you until you are nothing but a crack in a crevice. I hate it. I hate it all. My life has never been mine. My life had been my husband’s for a time. Then he died. Then it was the son he left me with. Then he died. Maybe I should tell you the whole story. I should tell you why I hate them all. And why I cut you up and removed the skin off of your very bones. And why I am going to stuff you and keep your right here. I get dreams. They come once in awhile, in little segments. They take about year to end, due to their rarity of showing up. These dreams replay the day I met my husband. It replays over and over and over again. It's like I’m getting pulled from the inside out. It was then a starry night at a sensual hotel, down in the inner parts of london in an expensive hotel I was staying at, for I was rich. You wouldn’t be able to understand how luxurious it was. The pungent scent of fine bread was as strong as a ferocious slap to the face. Although I had seen better hotels, there was something about this one. The stone pillars, burgundy curtains, and marble ground were as fine as fine could be. Yes like any rich hotel it was, but the feeling was what made this experience get lodged into my mind. Everyone there was sculpted precisely, having skin so thin and fine, and teeth so shiny

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