A. For, with my affection
always followed the lines of his face, for he believed this was a man. I thought-pads would not forget, he hoped-and He would not forget. It was perhaps this that made it valuable in this figure in full of affection? Was that love? The habit already leaked from the mirror in front of them, a little 'imperfect, a bit' deviated from the truth, a bit 'more real than his notebook covered in leather.
"I have long wanted to see your eyes, never see them" beggar-love to take another route.
"And yet you're not blind"
"Why can I only see reflections? Why do not you look at me?"
He again took the opposite route, and now she got into his train. It was over, maybe not forever. She looked at him, the mirror fogged sweetly bitter, far from the meandering dell'autoillusione, next in the den of consciousness.
