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Day 229

Dear Chris,

It's 9 'o' clock.

I'm standing in the middle of my bedroom, naked.

I feel equally brave and idiotic. I'm lightly tracing my collar bone and bosoms with my fingertips, asking myself where does the madness end?

Maybe my intentions are different, though I can't assess vagueness, at all.

It's 12 minutes past 9.

I'm laying on the covers of my bed, naked.

I feel I've misjudged every word you've typed to me. I inhale deeply and sigh, I smell of roses. I've got goosebumps all over my skin. All over every inch of soft, fair skin. But I'm not cold. For once, I'm not cold. I'm high on the feelings you bring to my senses.

How, after all our history, I can still feel twitterpatted toward you - it's a mystery.

But ah, nothing takes the taste of wine from my lips quite like unrequited love. I think I'll curl into my nest of sheets and hide in my long locks of hair until dawn.

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