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without work and a distant goal, he did not know what else he was living for.
Nothing could be gained from lingering on the past.
Ever since she was old enough to bleed, she became something to be sent away.
He was a man of dust who served men of silver:
If other men were charcoal sketches, he was drawn in fine ink.
“There is no home anymore, when the people you love are gone.”
be still, be silent, and the storm will pass on.
