Here it is.
"Through the smoke, the laughter, the music breaking on the cracked sound system, there she is sitting among people she knows. The odd thing, she's alone, even here where so many call her name. They approach to embrace, and she obliges, but without satisfaction, smiling to placate. When she lets go, cigarette to lips as she retakes her seat, her eyes, wide and bright as newborn stars, say that she is ready to be be alone. Forget this mob, this insanity; she has her own distinction, and it is cramped inside her mind. If only she could escape, flee to that small solace with someone who will just leave her to her loneliness but hold her when she's ready to be held, that would be nice. But that's just wishful thinking, and she has grown beyond the idea of ideals. The wanting of inner fantasy. This much she knows is true, that there is no guarantee, everything torn around a lacking design. Beyond that, not much is left, only a feeling that something has to submit.
She smiles, smokes her cigarette, leaning back in her chair. Adjusts her sweater, watches as eyes fall on her chest before feebily reaching for her eyes. It's always the same. She's beautiful in a way no one thinks to realize; stigmas retaliate against this fact only to shatter. She doesn't notice, though, and fails to fully grasp what is so attractive about her. Still, she understands: she's gorgeous in the eyes of whoever chooses to behold, and with that she runs, and feels most beautiful of all"
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