I think I'm 22 years old. 22-year-old decadent woman. Unmotivated face, messy hair, jeans and espadrilles. A woman with vicissitudes of life. Just a daily spritz of perfume, Chanel or Givenchy, and a little Dior every now and then. Remind yourself to at least be classy.
I haven't cried for a long time, and the dry weather seems to have evaporated all my tears. Lolita is just an innocent little girl, Humbert is just a cowardly, sick man. What can I say about this.
Lolita is a withered flower written by Nabokov. And I am nothing. My body started to go numb, even with the instant tide when he entered me. I know that I will develop a little attachment to the people I have been with for a long time, and I will not be able to leave for a longer time. I know I'm just grateful, not love. But can't stop. The weather got dark, I thought there would be a rain, but it was very short, only a few minutes.
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