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I would water the roses with my tears to feel the pain of their thorns and the red kiss of their petals.
What remains of all travel is the scent of a withered rose.
Every rose is the same as a rose, but who knows if, from the point of view of the rose, we are different: if the hand stretched towards the flower, the nostril that sucks in its perfume, the gaze that contemplates the petals are diff
I would water the roses with my tears to feel the pain of their thorns and the red kiss of their pet
