well, this is unexpected.
so, have a poem, by e e cummings.
-
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were.
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1 comment:
Love it. e.e. cummings is really good.
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