I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. He's passed through some rough mental torture. She found it rather funny that he always wore the shirt fastidiously tucked in and never wore the ensemble without a stiff brown leather belt. He gave you a poison. People think it is, but they are wrong. Then blackness. But I will never—never return. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream.
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