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How strange it is when it's orange-crazy autumn in the yard...
And I don't see her, I don't live with her, or maybe I've just never looked at her hair...
I only felt her eyes on me, that strange passionate look that burns leaves and boils water in streams, like some people's blood... But in autumn, it doesn't matter...
I don't know what she is: red-haired, loose and thin, or old, with glasses woven by spiders instead of a trap for naive victims...
But do you care? No? So why was it indifferent before, before...?