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Thomas Dean was never original and that was the problem. Another three left clover in the midst of green fields at the ending of spring, but the beginning of summer. His smile was generic, a simple pieces of art on every wall in every museums. His eyes didn’t glow differently than everyone else’s; it was just another star floating in abyss of turquoise and black. He had a dimple smile and his facial hair grew in waves, but what guy didn’t these days. His tall height was normal to see and his light peach skin was naturally smooth like it’s supposed to be. A regular Joe in my standards, if you don’t count his personality.

He warmed a room with his presence alone and just watching him sparked your interest. His name was on everyone’s lips and his laugh, I’ve only heard once, was on everyone's list. He knew how to tell and take jokes. His morals and standards were meant for him. He was studious, kind, humorous in his own nature and defiantly had a warm childlike heart manner to himself. Thomas Dean will never be original. 

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