"You have to love somebody who loved someone with love"-D.E.M.
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Like a flash of unspoken fiction she ranted quickly about her missing diary.
The pages torn and strewn into passages that once were filled with secrets
of her life are now awaiting disasters. Clothes flying aimlessly still clinging
to hangers, vases toppling showering water and leftover affairs all over her
new carpet. "Where did I put it last!"-she wailed-then again-"Where is that
damn book!"-and now a desperation of tears dancing on swollen cheeks as she
rushed about like a taxi with a non-paying customer, knowing the rip-off was
coming, but hope was a bit of something she couldn't control now, it was almost
over-and then..."Yes! Yes!...as if bitten twice by the same flea, but this flea
drew no blood, and left no itch. In some places we hide our feelings, never
knowing when or where we put them last, and hoping that maybe we would forget
them-someday-but love is not a page in a diary, or the binding that keeps them
there-the memories of someone, that cares for us.