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Yah, it's like that. Impaled on my own foolish romanticism? Hmmm...that would make a good line in a poem. Hee!
| Which poem are you? The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot God, you're indecisive. You're not that great, but you don't know if you want to accept that. You appreciate beauty and observe things others may not, but you're also hopelessly impaled on your own foolish romanticism. Go you.
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