The hand that saved has become a burden and cannot save itself. Love has buried itself in the wrinkles, unremembered, too real. These lines oppress the free spirit. One wants to love and be loved. One wants passion, for the years are numbered, which is something these wrinkles already know. The number is small, the wrinkles are deep. They have sliced the flesh and reached the heart. Passion is what made them. And what is left?
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