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February 20, 2013
My rose is dead. The red petals have turned a brittle black, curled up into a death pose. A gentle touch, and they fall away.

It's still in my room. I just can't quite bring myself to throw it away. It was a very sweet thing that someone gave me, and I'm reluctant for that to just be callously thrown in a bin to decompose. 

I suppose it's rather pathetic, in its own way. More than rather pathetic.

If I could, I would keep it pristine forever. For now, I'll just keep it until it is dust.