He could love you, or he could hate you; he had found very little use for middle ground.
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His main issue--or perhaps it was just an observation--stemmed from the fact that he was already thinking about how he could write about whatever he was experiencing or observing before the experiential or observational act, or state, concluded; all of his other problems--or "ways"--branched away from this stem.
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One humid summer night, after he had wrapped up a late-night painting session in the basement studio with her brother, he had spied her, the older sister, sleeping on the couch as he exited the bathroom on the main floor, thinking to himself in that unavoidable yet noncommittal pause that she looked like an angel from a Wim Wenders movie if the angels in Wenders' films had slept.