Already knew Italy a bitch so Truscott's memoirs not exactly news to me. Nonetheless, a goodly metaphysical excursion after several assaults upon person and senses. What a dirty bunch of...
Ah; to be diplomate, recall Ralph Bunche. Sublime to remind old friend of Jesse Jackson going to dilapidated facilities, calling for responce with the children: "I am somebody." Heaven forfend we think otherwise. There's only so much one can do about resistance to such esteem outside of the box.
Years ago, came across a vapid fellow who said he lived for his SOP art. I don't. I'd rather live for her. Nice and easy. But impossible circumstances. I let her be but she challenges me. What does she want already?
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