plus mortelle que l'hrone afghane

Love is a matter of timing.

Every once in a while a train leaves for the future to a place where lost memories are remembered, but no one has ever returned from the year 2046, except me.

 
really? this is the first thread? what happened to Pito?

hey Pito.
 
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Pito!
 
hey my good friend

thanks for clearing that up for me
 
That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exist anymore.

He remembers those vanished years. As though looking through a dusty window pane, the past is something he could see, but not touch. And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct.

 
this and the chelsea clinton thread


weird
 
blanche colombienne :goodforyou:

bien jou pitomane
 
It's hard to look at things directly. They are too bright and too dark. Sometimes we need to see things through a screen. On one side of the screen, memories fade. On the other, they glow forever. Love without end.