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Carrollblog carrollblog 12.27
2016-04-11 ⚑blog
carrollblog carrollblog 12.27 carrollblog carrollblog 12.26. Main. carrollblog 12.29 carrollblog 12.27 They told Love Write your name down. So she did. They said Read it out now. So she did. They said Count the letters. She said I Never learned to count. Jan Twardowski Posted by Jonathan on December 27, 2010 06 45 AM. Permalink TrackBack TrackBack URL for this entry cgi.bin mt mt.tb.cgi 1632 Post a comment If you haven t left a
Carrollblog carrollblog 12.26
carrollblog carrollblog 12.26 carrollblog carrollblog 12.25. Main. carrollblog 12.27 carrollblog 12.26 So much of what we live goes on inside The diaries of grief, the tongue.tied aches Of unacknowledged love are no less real For having passed unsaid. What we conceal Is always more than what we dare confide. Think of the letters that we write our dead. Dana Gioia Posted by Jonathan on December 26, 2010 09 55 AM. Permalink
Carrollblog carrollblog 12.25
carrollblog carrollblog 12.25 carrollblog carrollblog 12.24. Main. carrollblog 12.26 carrollblog 12.25 Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you re
Carrollblog carrollblog 12.27
2016-04-11 blog
carrollblog carrollblog 12.27 carrollblog carrollblog 12.26. Main. carrollblog 12.29 carrollblog 12.27 They told Love Write your name down. So she did. They said Read it out now. So she did. They said Count the letters. She said I Never learned to count. Jan Twardowski Posted by Jonathan on December 27, 2010 06 45 AM. Permalink TrackBack TrackBack URL for this entry cgi.bin mt mt.tb.cgi 1632 Post a comment If you haven t left a
Carrollblog carrollblog 12.26
carrollblog carrollblog 12.26 carrollblog carrollblog 12.25. Main. carrollblog 12.27 carrollblog 12.26 So much of what we live goes on inside The diaries of grief, the tongue.tied aches Of unacknowledged love are no less real For having passed unsaid. What we conceal Is always more than what we dare confide. Think of the letters that we write our dead. Dana Gioia Posted by Jonathan on December 26, 2010 09 55 AM. Permalink

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