12.20.05

unlike the story

This is unlike the story that it was written to be.
Outside, I could see the trees like little knives with their leaves waiting fto fall straight down to the ground. The wind was whipping them round, swirling them up to such gret height and mashing them as pedestrians as they strolled by in their dark pleated caouats. The glass was there between me and them, between us and the warmth of this shop and the cols outide with its first slow still fowinging down as feathers from above.
My dear. Your face then, frozen in time there any you trying to speak to be from behind it but I couldn�t see, couldn�t see you from behind this shadow and, and, I knew it all the time
It seems so strange tot alk about it now because

shi-ou-sama at 1:58 a.m.

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