It's a talent, really.
I ride off into my delusional sunset (apologies to Sara Bareilles) and convince myself of whatever it is. I am perfectly aware of the truth*; I just refuse to acknowledge it, stubbornly clinging to my lovely little fiction.
*He doesn't love you, he's just passing the time
What can I say? It's nice while it lasts.
so he said, would it be all right if we just sat and talked for a little while,
if in exchange for your time i give you this smile?
and she said, that's okay, as long as you can make a promise not to break my little heart
and leave me all alone in the summer
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