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Not For Me.

Not For Me.

I want to course the streets on wheel, led by my basket and stop and eat bread and many cheeses using my dirty senseless hands in the calculated cold, watching my breath rise and sometimes I might think you are “Not for me” and though “I get along without you very well,” I really don’t want to and instead I’ll recollect that sometimes you taste like almonds and jeez, I like that.

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