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She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.
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She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.
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I probably coughed self-pityingly in response, little aware that I was about to cross a tremendous threshold beyond which there would be no return, that in my hands I held an object whose simple appearance belied its profound power. All true readers have a book, a moment, like the one I describe, and when Mum offered me that much-read library copy mine was upon me.
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A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.
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She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.
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Rejection is a cancer, Edie. It eats away at a person.
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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.