The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. John, he was between me and the door. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity.
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This video was uploaded to practical-tool.shop on 02-06-2024 06:09:39
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