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Women who go on trips and like new experience love the flowers of the field, daises and larkspur, the blooming weeds of spring.
insecticides of the garden, appeal to those women who grow in the hard pan. Out-going, gregarious women love those flowers thrown in adulation, long-stemmed, or woven into horseshoes and ribbon-clad wreaths mounted on stands. Women with misplaced devotions and sympathy who understand little, yet kill with a sweeping remark, (want to stay on the mind), torture their captives with a shared scent of Gardenia's romantic fiction. Instead of the flower despised, evaporating, allergenic and pernicious, I fall for the black orchid of untouched absolutes, the flower never sensed, the love never savored, and the soul unrealized.
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