By chance, I’d taken up her keys, the keys of my childhood.
What I mean is, butter puts me in my body.
I couldn’t deny my aches and pains and eating disorder; after a while, it became too exhausting.
Selfishly, as a writer, I’m also worried about the seasons to come.
Shaving with it was more seductive than expected.
What kind of story would you like to write?
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