dedication to giant grotto recreation of ussong the camera xo. arrival of the prophesied pucelle, the virgin messiah of mediaeval lore, called upon to say whatever you need to about whether xo. battle feeling very fucked and reflection on which immeasurably enhanced a causesong a bottle trouble for those who sought to too.
totally reading about yon good. yes we know. but the comedy individualizes rather than makes. yes cliqueishness always carry, sword, upward summitswoon, or could scan the happy xo. the person as a key element. epic way you tease out penitentially under a self-proposed somnolence for the past eleven years in her, and thereby stands as testimony amongst example xo. earlier in the modern period. can't on the scene x for o. not previous interim, we know, xo. conclude not entirely nomenclature, the strong utopian and fantastic of so many repressive sumptuary laws at the throne, of the transparent silk veil, further unless about xo xo xo wasn't going, but since you soon wanted directly as not seemed stranger could affect our. please understand harksong. certainly aware of the there is no need for me. to argue about fashion as well as ontological fantasies were misogynist, neither letters nor the greatest artemis. the other thing which throwback chair strokes me about. opposite in gallery, but god for an hour. xo the interiority fought behind mediaeval gaze, up in an alcove of her own so, at the rate go through flotsam devout peasant girl. you cannot have an ideal grace. whose military competence seemed the greatest irony of all to the worldly courtpoet. that great reservoir my curiosity function xo. urine, pots and pans, and roses. an afternoon if we need it, despair happy here. cancel lot, the calves in our meadow. not without dignity, quiet air, semblance gathered. be vexing every misery. a heroine decides when and with whom she. one last phrasesong makes you feel not value my. my. at speaking to actually very more awkward. completely. odd solitary abbey cell translations, always thought, moneywise to you was yours as you did xo. my local relationship to have thought. in setting the theocracy of the seashore. or the wind that blows to the harbor. that would have been enough. this marking much room in everything, and hate such dismay. prefer intervals. late in the count on your fulsome news: dear mrs text in the livesong, x
Elizabeth Treadwell is the director of Small Press Traffic.
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