jesus, emily. sometimes when I am reading what you write I feel like I am listening to my own monologue. I tried just now to find one particular part of anything you just wrote to claim as exactly my own thought. And the minute I found it, I kept going and realized I couldn't claim one part, but rather needed the whole. i sort of just want to cry at the pinpoint accuracy with which you inadvertently paint my life before me. if i could be anywhere at this moment, it would be with you, discovering all of the secrets of france.
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