tittering of butterflies, at the core – nostalgic strummings from a millennia before, us that is – you and i, trudging down this solitary circle of weaving paths, embroidered onto this fabric – living, life, all of it – forming a rainbow tapestry of emotions felt, when in fact, from way back behind the cricket nets, you knew, and i knew too, the mirror-image of this enveloping sentiment had to be unimaginably harsh, so we lied to each other, amidst constant inner strife, we lied about the truths, play acting rehashed lies to be true, suiting us both, unimaginably so, pandering to me, and yes, tormenting you too … … …

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