You can’t help it. Each romantic scene. From you first kiss with May behind the parking lots of Monash, To your first real kiss, one that channeled genuine abandonment, with Gula, where lips gave way to life together. Too those in between, the hint to your flavour, the color to your character:Natalie, who hated her body because her mother was a model for the Melbourne papers, and felt so insecure. Only really left that complex those hours they got high and listened to his tunes. To those in between, the hint to your flavour, we zoom in upon Debra, who taught him tarot, to catholic Kate, who introduced him to skinny jeans and the idea that his PhD in Logic, actually recited, might make a woman come; to trust fund Tee, fuck wbat a mess she was, yet reminded him that everyone basically believes in him, believes whatever the fucck comes out of his mouth, to Trey, zero mess, the vacuum of flavour leading her into devout introspection under corporate gaze, to She, my final African arrival, lives in a real world, one of life and death, of being right now, no alternative. She, Gaia complex: the earth beneath each. Each a Rachel/Leah to her. The privilege of Leah, she had.


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