Go make friends with him.” But the older a girl gets, the further she moves away from the democratic simplicity of street acquaintance. At sixteen she can still believe that princes on white horses riding on the sidewalks, looking for his betrothed, at nineteen of these illusions is the final lump, and at twenty-five she listcrawler indep has a phone alarm button loaded police, which she automatically fumbles at the sight of any animal – even white, even crimson, which clearly directs the hooves in her direction. No, she won’t even tell you how to get to the bakery. Who knows what kind of buns you’re going to buy there.
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