Not weird. The color of my blankie (that I sleep with  ) reminds me of previous T. It bothers me a bit that I'm much more comforted by the memory of her than I ever was by the reality of her.
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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