''How many different narratives will you create in order to elicit that same response? Perpetuating that same feeling, day in and day out,
Tugging at life, pulling at life. Now I can practically see those strings'', she searched for his gaze adamantly. In an evening bloated with crowds and darkness, they continued to wander in what little they could see. ''Look how many metaphors we've laboured, just to create one tiny gap. Go ahead, call it excitement. There's still enough room''.
''But...''. He pretended to be confused. Letting himself wonder if he'd forgotten how to live in the first person, he searched himself for a vague idea of who he was when no one was watching, at which point their conversation came to an end. They walked on together, silence put wholeheartedly into each gesture. He understood, and thought of how he might forgive himself for abstaining himself in the mean time.
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