gevurah shebnetzach
I catch up to myself in one way, leave the other part hanging. The train on the dress halfway bustled, I bustle about.
Where’s your entourage? God says. The little birds are too busy singing, I say, to hold my train. Ah, yes, God says, it’s
that time of year. And I do not want any poisoned apples, I say. No, God says, they don’t carry those at Lucky’s.
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