"Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice."
The Sensible Thing
F. Scott Fitzgerald
This is probably the most depressing short story I've read in awhile.
Another month has passed, and the passing of time is still not over. We can never let go of the things which we love the most. No matter the time, distance, or distractions, or even more distractions.
I expect May will pass just the same. April is over.
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