A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction. - William Faulkner
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How dark is the path in the park by the sea,
How yellow the lamps are and bright!
I'm calm. Only please do not mention to me
His name, don't talk of him to-night.
You're sweet, we'll be friends, we'll take walks, you and I,
We'll kiss, and we'll age side by side.
Above us the months light as snowflakes will fly;
On, on, swiftly, smoothly they'll glide.