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I was looking at my photos for the day, but none of them were really satisfactory. The snap of Sarah walking up the quietly beautiful leafy road in Sheffield looked underwhelming at best on screen and dinner, though delicious and eaten in great company, was not well presented and thus, any pictures thereof would appear like a heap of unappealing vegetable vomit on a plate! (ifuwntrcp) follow me on twittttttttaaahhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Again, lunch was lazy and spent with friends, but remarkable only in company and had no aesthetically pleasing angles that lent themselves to capturing the moment. A delightful Skype session with a friend was followed by story time with Sarah on the couch, which left me in a pensive mood, staring out of my window considering life, mortality and futility. Gazing out over the street, the leaves rustled and a cool breeze cooled my tea. It struck me, not for the first time, how odd it was that there were people living just across my street having lives at least as full and complex as mine but I would never know. Most of the world would never know.

Does it matter that most of us will never be remembered? Are those that are better than the rest of us; why them and not someone else? Who even really cares?

So, I write this, sitting in my bed with freshly laundered sheets feeling embarrassed about the overly sentimental post, but wanting to preserve my thoughts, in case I get an answer one day.

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