You spoke of cherry blossoms, a higher state of oblivion, a detachment not only in word, but deed. As I listened, my past danced before my eyes, bringing back the ugly, unforgivable infractions I had committed throughout my years and would continue committing as long as I lived. Once you made me cherry blossoms from cigarette paper, and I realized beauty was part paper, part glue. Now, the blossoms have faded, and my photograph no longer looks like me. I stare at your silence, share in your oblivion.
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