They are in love, there, both passing among the others invisible and blind and in the books they are in love dieing to the memory quickly sacrificed (but no one writes about sacrifice without it) and she could keep walking take the train fall in love far away with a man she'll never live long enough to know too well, keep walking, vanish like a cold ghost among narrow lighted alleys before turning back to the comfort of old footsteps to a face she loves no more than a wall and a life secure as the nail in it.
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