He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.
in a post. I want to be remembered
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I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank.
We stand there laughing. The fireworks go off behind him.
They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.
She says something that isn't really right but isn't really wrong. I'm not taking in their words any more, just their voices, trying to get a feel for whatever is going on between them. I'm imagining what it's like for them in this delicate situation, what I would say if it were me. She has that perfect upper-class accent, and she's using whatever upper-class tact that comes with it to navigate this. Style. They can't be together, but their voices are betraying them.
a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me
you know who you are. no more time, not like
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. way too specific.i am quite illiterate on producing technology
i love it here
its good short few pages
stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time