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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2004-10-06 | | Alone on the way towards a chosen gray unknown - with at left and at right- the beloved season-reason to be, she questions the last withered leaves on their late destiny. Meantime, holding her yellow coat, you complain and I am still seeking for your fingers to paint an able sunshine whose power melts the haze. These days we all are souls without masks in a quiet dance of impossible love.
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