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I saw you sniffing the leaves of a beautiful dogwood tree. Your eyes did not water once and I knew that your goat dowry must be 15, 10 at least. You glanced in my direction as I bit into an apple; it was mushy, half rotten, but I yearned for the taste of red. We locked eyes and I noticed then a single tear drift down your cheek. Your goat dowry dwindled to 9, but it was a beautiful piece of salty ocean. You look like a Theodore, or a Mary. I called my father and told him to book himself a flight. It’s going to be a bumpy ride, but oh, do we have a farm, baby.
I have allergies, you know. Ha! Yes. I sniffle and tear. I am worth 7 goats. I am no Natalie Portman, but I beg you to man my port. You and I, Theo, will coalesce and become a hurricane of bleats. I bleat for you in my sleep, sweet dogwood fiend. What color was I wearing? Who am I? Look out your window.
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