Dear Diary we are lost, we souls reflected in each other and given to sly remarks are no more in the habit of finding firm ground than seeking that which drifts above it, we have no forwardings save the roads on which we walk and no purpose save the absence of which it dictates, we are unusual in our shortcomings and profound in our own disdane. We are skyline drifters and this world is undecided of our repute.
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