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Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.
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You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts.
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Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
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If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, they never were.
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Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.
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