In hopping words between spaces one forgets what one's made of and what one's made for. The hideous state of loving what the vision records became the prior to one. Insect-like, being attracted by glitters and rarity. By strong furniture, by fancy cars, by life. Marriage became the point of break-even. The point where you spend all your hard-work, night shifts, your rough skin, and black hollows around your eyes for one to live with a long-lasting relationship. Does material preserve happiness?
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