The years go by. They set sail. And we grow wise, though always late, pierce the cold interlaced fingers, and in the evening, a meek quiet cuckoo, with us. Then come the memories. They stay. The evening lilac blooms slowly, and our gaze, held in its spell, true, sinks into butterfly oblivion. Eyes closed, we dare not linger lest we move and drive away our blue memories of youth... We stand and the silence cries in silence.
# Non-refundability No return possible. The money spent dissolves into the air like smoke from a cigarette nobody wanted to light. The counter clerk won't meet your eyes. His fingers drum on the register—a rhythm of inevitability. You stand there still holding the receipt, that small white flag of your surrender, creased and already fading. The policy is clear. Final sale. As if finality were something you could purchase, pocket, and carry home. But you already knew this. Even before you asked, some part of you had already let go— the way we always do, in the end, with everything.
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