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A lady she was 

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And there she was. In all the days that love had lost sight of any one soul, it had never lost hers. For she was of some other mystery, an angel I suppose. And no one knew what lay behind those eyes. 

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Perfection

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We are not perfect, we are human; and in our imperfect ness is  life, love, and beautiful moments. This is where imperfection ceases.