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i'm not seventeen, but i've cuts on my knees.
When Hasibe finally goes home, for good this time, she is greeted by the old silence of her building's interior and the soft swish of cars outside rushing around, going places in all likelihood less artlessly beautiful than the delicately post-Bohemian playground she has created for herself; she hopes they're fuller, though. ( ... ) -
discard the feathers on the ground.
It has been roughly a work week since Hasibe had a strange, heated, and emotionally conflicting night with a stranger in a bar. ( ... )
