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It's been two years since we existed as an "us". The ten of us. That summer we spent every day here. Now there are only us three left.

Time, like an ever rolling stream, bears all its sons away

You've all aged so much. I suppose I must have too. One of you have become a woman of sorts; younger than me but who desperately tries to be older- to know everyone and to see everything. The other looks haggard; downtrodden; a victim. If I could give you one piece of advice that you would take, it would be to see a therapist. Talk to someone. It was tearing you apart two summers ago, when you had stability and an "us". God. But this node is not about you.

We like to think of our selves as everlasting. No-one has come before, or shall come after us. No-one will sit in this office and wonder why the fuck "anal beads" is written on the skirting boards, but of course, in a year: in five: in ten, people will. In a year I'll be gone, and in five so will all that remember me. Fuck.

They fly, forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day

Too much has changed, even while the scenery stays the same.

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