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Lovely, and rather constructed, he is: nothing seems to be out of its place, except for his mind. So is this man. So is the shore, and the love he cannot give anymore.
As there is Beauty, there is Horror. He navigates freely between both, which makes him something close to a bittersweet drink. He is profoundly more than a hint of Whisky, several languages compounded into a generally pleasant, yet neutral accent and wanton visions thrown about, expressed succinctly when we talk. I am beginning to enjoy his indecisive persona.
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