Lately, it feels like all I think about is the girl in these photos: the versions of myself that existed once, long ago. I imagine them still out there somewhere, preserved on alternate plains of reality; in memory, I jump from self to self as easily as flipping through photographs, remembering.
She is me and I am her, but she's gone forever. I must finally be an adult now, mourning my childhood as if that little girl really did die.
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