You know what? I’ve seen too many movies. They make me want to remember splendid things, important things, as if they happened to me; they make me want to live a good life full of compassion and wonder, just like all those characters up there. They make me want to remember her like that, like she was one of the spirits pictured on the big screen, that she was larger than life. Somewhere I know she was small, though, with small hands like the rain, just like the poem tells it. She was very human. Not in the bad way do I depict her so, when I say that of what she was, even if there could be said that some of the bad was thrown in, too. Even in the movies can the main characters have flaws, I suppose. And the movies also make me a sucker for happy endings, so I’m expecting my own any time now. After which I can die. Heh.
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