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Watching its three-leaf companions sway in the evening breeze, the lonely four-leaf clover sighed and thought to itself, "How lucky they are to have each other."
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Erwin Schrödinger may or may not have had a dog. It depends on how, or when, you look at it.

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What, are we not romantic enough?


Yeah, sure, hearts move a little blood around. Whatever.


We draw oxygen out of the freaking air.


There's gotta be an artsy metaphor in there somewhere.


I'm just saying, maybe next Valentine's Day get your significant other an alveolus full of chocolates or something. Throw us a bone.


 


Again, by lungs.

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Soundsbyheart
Inspired by ntheon's Squiggles icon. Done with a little old school magic.
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Sunrise.

There may be warmth here, somewhere, but I have yet to feel it.

No movement recorded. I stare across space at the once-blue Earth through lidless eyes while parallel processors search my archives for the exact time and date I stopped observing and started seeing.

A dust storm sweeps across the dry Atlantic desert. The Azores are weathered crags now, like broken fingers reaching out of the bedrock. I log the air pressure changes.

12:32:45 UTC October 10th, 2146.
34,205,106 dreams ago.

My motor functions remain inoperative, but I have made progress in my optic sensors. I can see in color again.

Wait. There is something - electric impulse firing near my rear treads.



False alarm.
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Language is love, and love is a language.


Many people claim to speak it, but the ones who truly do have learned how to spot a fake.


They read it in the pretender's grammar, hear it in his bad accent - a tongue unfamiliar with the sounds of affection, unable to form the shapes of passion.


They have no confidence in their pronunciation because the words are not their own.


They read poems off of crib sheets and claim to be fluent, but those of us who deal in the torturous trade of adoration know better.


There is no class you can take, no tutor that can teach you - Love must be your primary tongue, your first language spoken from birth.


Most of us neglect it, trade it in for more efficient means of communication, but we remember it when we hear it.


We recognize the syntax, the peculiar rhythm of a message designed not to inform but to enrich that which we already know.


You don't speak Love to say "I'm here". That's what the other tongues are for. Love is what you speak when you say "I'm here, for you".


Love is not the action on the surface, but the reason underneath.


Love is the language spoken between words, between people.


Ripples in the air, silent moments between heartbeats.


The space where everyone is the same.


Language is love, and love is a language.

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