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Like two straight lines overlapping, we momentarily crossed at a certain point, then went our separate ways.
The death of a dream can be, in a way, sadder than that of a living being. Sometimes it all seems so unfair.
For me, it was passive listening, pop music flowing out of the tiny speakers of my Panasonic transistor radio, in one ear and out the other, barely registering. Background music for my adolescence. Musical wallpaper.
Maybe the monkey was a pathological liar. Who could say?
