I feel I must resemble the lady that is lost, immersed in the stale mottled greasy clothes of her delinquent lovers. She finds comfort, security, calm in keeping this odd assortment of garments that she hopes will one day prove that she did not love in vain. The lines on her face tell all the stories of her deliciously ancient experiences. But for now she has nobody to indulge. She thrives in her own drowning imagination. Should she let it go. Could she let it go. Let go.
Still she goes to bed wearing her past lovers moth holed webby plaid stained cloth.
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