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She was art. More beautiful than Van Gogh's paintings, Capitu's eyes, and Chico Buarque's music. No art by Pablo Picasso could compare to her strokes. She was those metaphors with profound meaning. She was one of those books that the more you read, the more you wanted to delve deeper. Days could pass, and she always surprised me. It didn't matter where I was or who I was with. Everyone could be looking at me, but it was in her that I saw myself…
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