philosophical prose. I remain alone.
Love is truly what I long for. Love is what I have always wanted. But do not think me stupid. I have already discussed those drunken men walking away from cafes with bought women on their arms, and I know this is not love.
The women I have truly loved have haunted me ever since I first laid my eyes upon their sullen lips and thin-boned cheeks. Where others drink this away and choose a simpler accomplice in their bed, I have wholly devoted myself to a love that is so real, but so surreal as to be a dream. I view women in a far too ethereal light. I see them as great goddesses who lonely nothings like me could never hope of holding in their arms. This may seem an intensely romantic view, sweet, innocent, maybe even that ugly word ‘cut...
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