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All birds and men are sure to die but songs may live forever
Read The Bloody Chamber and Other Short Stories because of PHIMBO 's post
He strips me to my last nakedness, that undersign of mauve, pearlized satin, like a skinned rabbit; then dresses me again in an embrace so lucid and all encompassing it might be made of water.
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Nothing about her is human except that she is not a wolf.
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I was so unused to my own skin that to take off all my clothes involved a kind of flaying.
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Everything flowers; no harsh wind stirs the voluptuous air. The sun spills fruit for you. And the deathly, sensual lethargy of the sweet South infects the starved brain; it gasps: ‘Luxury! More luxury!’ But the snow comes, you cannot escape it, it followed us from Russia as if it ran behind our carriage, and in this dark, bitter city has caught up with us at last.
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last edit on Jun 13, 2021 2:46:50 GMT by gimmick
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