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little boy lost


Notes

You do not know it when you have it, but when it is gone, it tastes bittersweet –– the last slice of cake (it went stale days ago), ice-cream dropped on a summer’s day. It tastes like the memory of sea-salt, of memories fading far too fast.

(You are just a boy when you are left with the weight of the world on a soul too young to be this old.)


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