He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. My son went down after his death. He paced faster, stomping around. And then: “Of course! Always. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea.
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