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fake plastic trees

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we're in your car, driving towards north of this cruel romantic city. it's half past eight, the soft, waxing gibbous moon had your dark myopic eyes glittered, defined and you're playing my favorite Radiohead song at a good eighty seven decibels. we talked from black hole theories to donald trump to your favorite hair stylist. i took a polaroid of you because you were smiling the whole time, you couldn't keep your eyes on the road. as cliché as that sounds like, you made me the happiest i'd ever been.

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