[…] they celebrated by kissing under a favorite old maple tree that overhangs a Boulder sidewalk, creating an igloolike enclosure.
Crabtree's become a—a womanthrope, said Tommers. No—a misowench. There's not been a fresh photo of ankles on his chimney-piece for months.
Crabtree's become a—a womanthrope,
No—a misowench. There's not been a fresh photo of ankles on his chimney-piece for months.
The Monday morning blahs occur because inner clocks, uncorrected, disentrained and allowed to go their own sweet way, have made inner time irrelevant to outer time.
Sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
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