Endlessly foremost, the recollection of youth’s fount flows deep in the psyche of an aged man. The loss of a first true love is never quite lost, for he sees her in the faces of passing strangers, is haunted in the quiet of his solitude as he waltzes with the “what ifs” of every passing season. For what reason does an enchanted kiss endure like a cold mist leaving an aged man wintry in summer time?
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