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“I am afraid of you. In loving me you hold a knife at my throat. In loving you I tell you exactly where to cut.”
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“Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.”
— Anais Nin
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