20.12.08

white nights

dostoevsky is not a word acknowledged by spell check, and i have no idea why.
he is phenomenal, and i had forgotten my love for him.
i came home, back to the city where i first read his words.
(home is where you discover great art. this is my definition for now.
a person could have so many homes in this fashion.)

i knew that this love story could not really be just about love. after all, what love story is?
and although i am not finished, i am sure it is love unfilled.

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