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It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things.
It doesn't make you crazy, just different.
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Here was a thing that would grow old;
here was a thing that would turn beautiful and lose that beauty, that would inherit the grace but also the bad ear and flawed figure of her mother, that would smile too much and squint too often and spend the last decades of her life creaming away the wrinkles made in youth until she finally gave up and wore a collar of pears to hide a wattle; here was the ordinary sadness of the world.
