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We all ended up somewhere with our various uncertain lives flapping about us in tatters and our pockets full of foreign coins.
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Like a diaphanous nightgown, language both hides and reveals.
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A pronoun, too, will aptly reflect the number of its antecedent: "they" does not refer to one person, no matter how many personalities she or he has, or how eager you are to skirt the gender frays.
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Time is the mother and mugger of us all.
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Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings.
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Either I've been missing something or nothing has been going on.
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We waltzed Lisztlessly.
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Art is only abstract when you look the other way.