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I can hear you, here in my mind. You cry, you sing yourself to sleep, and dream of warm things: that steaming cup of tea held between both hands while you gazed at the summer garden in full bloom; and that seaside cafe with its 70’s decor and what must have been the best potato leek soup the world had ever known. Your despair is nearly palatable. How much longer can you hold on? How do I even know you’re still alive? Is it too late to save you, was I ever meant to save you? I don’t know who or where you are. I only hear the echo of the song you sing, haunting and barely audible: California dreaming on such a winter’s day...

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