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i don’t ever dream about you and me. i don’t ever make up stuff about us that would be classed as insanity. i don’t ever drive by your house to see if you’re in. i don’t even have an opinion on that tramp that you’re still seeing. i don’t know your timetable, i don’t know your face off by heart. but i must admit that there is still a part of me that thinks we might get on.


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