Table of Contents E D I T O Râ&#x20AC;&#x2122; S N OT E S t a f f : t h a n k y o u fo r y o u r 9 p m s , Thursdays, patience C o n t r i b u t o r s : t h a n k y o u fo r y o u r w a te r, s u g a r, n a m e s R e a d e r s : t h a n k y o u fo r b e i n g h e re .
ART Untitled #1 cover Sarah Caggiano Abigail Charcoal, Chalk 1 Carrie Clowers Sophia 7 Eleanor Stewart Untitled 9 Issy Bohling sean 12 Mary Kate McTeigue camvas 13 Katrina Meserve Untitled #2 18 Sarah Caggiano projections 19 Clara Dinkin autumn 21 Coraline Kowalczyk Ellie Charoal, Chalk 24 Carrie Clowers fogged in cool 25 Mollie Wohlforth Acid 27 Eleanor Stewart logarithms 30 Katrina Meserve Sedna 31 Issy Bohling what did the man say when he 37 Katrina Meserve lost his tractor additional photography from Unsplash
WRITING Blonde Feeding the Birds let me fry okra for you Tweets The Next Day he tells me (us) to call him in james, tell me more about this thing called dying for love if i knew where my passport was i would build you a cathedral in spain 9-30-16 /the day my mom called me at college and said she has als a letter for the mail delivery person for 30306 area in atlanta, ga if, ands, butts g e t ti n g i t heaadwater The Violinist’s Thumb labour tfw he’s dirt ‘Hagen’s Summer Untitled Sunset over Lake Champlain Untitled mirror house i missed you this is breakfast one at a time guy fieri is my cousin
2 3-4 5 6 8 10 11
Zoë Barnstone-Clark Thea Burke Cameron Graham Dani Planer Marisca Pichettev Anisha Pai Izzy Putnal
17 20 22 23 26 28 29 32 33 34 35 36 38 39 40
Katrina Meserve Anisha Pai Katie Clark Emily Williams Anisha Pai Sarah Dauer Madeleine Olson Donari Yahzid Rachel Schmieder-Gropen Rochelle Malter Katie Clark Chloe Martin-Poteet Cameron Graham Madison Hulme Dani Planer
Abigail Charcoal, Chalk Carrie Clowers
Blonde Zoë Barnstone-Clark Frank Ocean wrote an album about my summer and called it Blonde. All that time alone and the skylines I leaned to in the hope in the lack of horizon line here in summer where time ticking is drowned out by the sound of our breath and his weight on my chest. You spread your arms wide and everything is yours because all the hills, the stones, the salt water want is to be remembered and I wonder how you managed to turn woe into background noise. I ask if one of these nights you’d like to put the stars up and you bring me a meteor shower in a Fanta bottle and we’ll tally my secrets with the shooting stars. We can pretend I love him and I’ll still let you blow raspberries on my tummy late at night because it’s easier to give my heart to a resident of my head than my best friend. Summer’s as long as it should be and everyday still counts like crazy because I weep and weep the day he leaves, but I’ll make island love to you the last night before we leave. I’m not her and you’re not him but maybe we were meant to lose our self control because we know the feeling deep down is good.
Feeding the Birds Thea Burke “It’s time again to feed the birds,” he says. His graceful fingers curl around the edge of his rocking chair, and slowly, he hoists himself from its cushions. The worn brown slippers make a shh shh across the floor as he shuffles to the glass door. His chair still rocks, gently. Reaching for the knob, he turns to inquire after me, but I am already beside him. We turn the rusty brass knob of the second screen door, and my bare feet hit the cool bricks of the patio with a small slapping sound. I inhale. There is nothing like the air of Cape Cod; sweet, salty, pure. The bay that lies beyond is a satin, silent expanse today, with only subtle movement at its shore. A flock of swallows dart out and swoop down, arcing together towards the water. He is already halfway to the first bird feeder, across the small plot of garden that my grandmother keeps. I scramble across the bricks, and start one foot in front of the other over a thin wooden beam, so as not to crush her plants. I stretch my arms out for balance until I reach the second feeder. I latch onto it from my precarious perch, and take it from where it sways slightly in the breeze. Its rusted handle fits easily into my palm, and I swivel on the wooden beam, leaping back onto the patio. He waits for me at the end of the path. Together, we make our way around the side of the house and under the wooden trellis, towards the garage. As we walk beneath, I throw my head back to look straight up at the plant entwined wood of the lattice, watching as the sun filters through each leaf and flower petal. Sparrows hop from one twisted branch to the next, and fat bumblebees hover in the center of the red hibiscus blossoms. The occasional chipmunk skitters across the path, a tiny blur of light brown and black stripes. He stops halfway down the path, and turns to me. With a smile he says, “Don’t forget the one by the window.” The one by the window! I turn and dash into the mulch of the front garden, pushing my way through shrubs and extending tree branches, until I am in front of the kitchen window, where the third feeder hides. I grab it off its perch, perhaps too excitedly. The old iron rod it sits on shifts precariously in the earth, and I quickly right it before turning and skipping back through the plants to the path. He waits, head turned, looking at something far in the distance.
“Here it is!” I say as I land back on the bricks. He turns back to me, and his blue eyes smile from under his glasses. “There’s a good girl.” The white garage door sticks upon opening, and its hinges issue a loud, familiar creak as way of welcome. We cross the slate gray of the dusty floor, and over to a tin trash can, worn around the edges with age. My grandfather reaches down, and his long fingers turn the top so that it comes off with a pop. I peer inside. The smell of birdseed comes out in invisible plumes, sweet and earthy. The whole can is filled, with a sea of tiny black seeds that shift like water when sifted. I reach in, and swirl them around, quickly withdrawing when a tiny bug moves over the surface. The red scoop waits, rooted into the seed. We begin to shovel, and the seeds waterfall into the feeders with tiny metallic plunks as they gather layer by layer. When all three are filled, I gently pick one off the floor. Inevitably, a few seeds escape and drop, bouncing on the ground as we go. He walks with two feeders, one in each hand; they are extensions of his long arms, as natural looking in his hands as a gardener with his spade. After replacing the kitchen window feeder, we round the corner to the back of the house, back towards the bay. The breeze from the water greets us gently at the corner, and I pad back over the wooden beam to the iron hook that awaits. Gingerly I rest it, and the feeder swings slightly with the momentum of the motion. Turning, I watch as my grandfather slowly does the same. In the tangle of bushes slightly beyond him, I see a group of chickadees, waiting. They watch him, their heads twitching and tiny black eyes surveying. As he moves to adjust the feeder on the hook, they hop slightly, but do not fly away. They are not afraid; they sense with an animal intuition that he is gentle. Turning on a slippered foot, he smiles at me. Back inside, I watch from the window as the chickadees flit to the little metal stems that jut from the feeder; tiny seats for tiny creatures. Their heads poke inside, retrieving seed by seed. He watches them too, the outside reflected in the panes of his glasses. He watches them with a serene calm, hands slipped into his pockets. Then he turns and sits, easing himself back into the blue and white checkered cushions of his rocking chair by the window. The sunlight reaches over the top of his chair, illuminating wisps of brown hair and casting a soft halo. He folds his hands together and looks at me. “Do you know something?” he says to me, smiling. “If you feed the birds, you will go to heaven.” With that, he picks up a pencil and his crossword.
let me fry okra for you Cameron Graham if you could watch you watch me when i say good morning from under the covers, finding you at the window so careful not to miss the first few heartbeats of fall, you might realize you are a little more than you think you are. under the covers, i know it will start to snow soon, so in my dream i buy us bus tickets to atlanta and along the way i show you things like virginia and dogwood trees and muscadine wine, and i say: come with me in my cotton dress to any diner in the south and let it show you you have a soul, and if nothing else she loves to dance to the blues (even if she hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t found a wood floor to stomp on yet) and she loves the way the soil is breathing softly here, and she loves. this is a place to always show your legs, thank the sun palms-first for growing us slow and strong out of the ground, feel warm at night even above the coversâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; so if we never catch that bus, please know i will spend the winter trying to give you a way to whistle through the snow as if it were georgia and keep you warm as if i were the south
Eleanor Stewart 7
THE NEXT DAY Marisca Pichettev Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hailing. But only under the trees. Springâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s loom catches my hair takes it and weaves it across my face. back and forth motions, tight knots to finish rows. Harsh art, It hurts. A searchlight, casting through the clouds, finds my face. I squint, and scan, up through the trembling trees. The hail glitters; fragments of a storm from yesterday.
he tells me (us) to call him in Anisha Pai my lips engorge. i am sitting in a cavern that is dismantaling as he speaks; it is gorgeous to watch; my lips open and cannot close i am standing in a crevice between the bitten-ragged pout of what is ahead and the cupids bow of achievement and i slip down deep so deep in smooth saliva i am dissolving glazed sugar melts from my eyes. i am back again, cavernous; it is me i am inside, rushing back to myself, sliding down my own cupids bow, with no arrows to shoot at him. where is my love? i am not quite whole.
james, tell me more about this thing called dying for love Izzy Putnal (for james wright) in that poem that we both love, the one about those football players in ohio. what we didn’t do behind the field house in autumn. so beautiful you know it has to die. early october, i am talking about leaving the trees where we found them. i am talking about how much i wanted this, what we did do, behind the field house in autumn. our heroes, dead. our fathers, dead, too. call this something. “rupture,” or “horses.” a word for what we do when our bodies begin to gallop against each other.
Mary Kate McTeigue
if i knew where my passport was i would build you a cathedral in spain Cameron Graham instead i will sleep with you to alicia keys and wake to watch a morning unfold across your body as you unfold for me things i never knew like looking forward to sleeping in a small way and things like kissing me in the warmest laundry room there has ever been and i will climb through the woods in western massachusetts or through tightly packed tables in a cafe to find you three dozen roses or any number of small purple flowers you can keep in your car where i will let you play showtunes on a good day and on a bad day still make you put your seatbelt on and i would stop writing this poem right now if i could find one word that is the way you pull your fingers over mine whenever youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re close enough to touch my hands. the next time you think you are not gentle remember the first thing you do in the morning is make space for me to put my head on your chest. the next time you think you are not gentle remember i have dreamt of your palms.
9-30-16 /the day my mom called me at college and said she has als Sarah Dauer 1. people are not people b/c of the way they grip coffee cups, hands, being 2. if i have a daughter i will name her daisy (or winnie, or nora, or penelope) and i will teach her how to write with her left hand and always say thank you
a letter for the mail delivery person for 30306 area in atlanta, ga Dani Planer a while ago i thought about being a mail delivery person a while ago when people still communicated primarily through mail. at the point that i thought such things me & my girlfriend were writing letters to each other & i was wondering if you could tell that something was happening between me & this olivia or that one day we wouldn’t work out very well (if you did, i’m glad you didn’t tell me, all-knowing mail person, because i had a really good time dating her) i told my pal greta about my thoughts on being a mail delivery person – how it could either be a great job or one that gets sad because you have to deal the progress of other people’s lives from the seat of a white car that’s kinda funny shaped & has a seat on the different side of the vehicle than what is typical in america & she told me that one day when she was sick she saw the post person who delivers to her home look through the letters that her neighbor was receiving & smile & i really hope that my family’s mail develops a deep connection with you & makes you smile sometimes. what it comes down to is this... thanksgiving is coming up & i want to give some thanks to you. i spend a lot of time thinking about mail delivery people (i would be surprised if i was the only one who did) & what i was thinking about today on my drive home from school was that i hope whoever has the privilege of spending their thanksgiving with you (even if it’s no one, even if it’s just you) sees your value & your worth & makes you feel valuable & worthy & they make you or you make them sweet potatoes with little toasted marshmallows on the top & they get stuck to the back of your teeth & you feel really happy. i want to make sure you know that this is not satirical & i’m not trying to be an asshole. whenever i can’t sleep at night i think about mail delivery people & about how at some point in my life i’d like to do what you do so i can appreciate you & your work more. & if no one makes you sweet potatoes with little toasted marshmallows on top this thanksgiving let me know & i’ll put some that my family made into a tupperware jar & put it in the mailbox before i leave for school so that you can feel really happy & get the little toasted marshmallows stuck to the back of your teeth.
IF, ANDS, BUTTS Katrina Meserve
last Saturday you grabbed me by the cheeks and screaming told me to stop crying. so I did. Last winter my stomach hated me more than I hate myself but you made me take long swigs of ginger ale and eat saltines in 3’s and they were so dry but you made me better. you always do. billions of times the words “I would literally be dead without you” have come out of my flat lips but Jesus Christ it’s true. we talk about dogs more than we probably should. remember when we almost bought one together? her eyes were the sweetest things I had ever seen and raising something named Jackie is only an act I would want to do with you.
I feel like I got you addicted to coffee. and god knows caffeine is constantly running through my veins, and I taught you how to tap into that sweet drug to have dripped into our bloodstreams. the thing is…. I cant even remember how our friendship began. you were just there one day, after being sweaty on the court and we laughed together over bad jokes, securing my trust fast and easily. The night I knew I wanted you to be a bridesmaid in my wedding we were gone. buzzing on strong drinks and shitty weed. you often crawled into bed with me as to not suffer the trek to the other side of the world. and that night we prepped to battle our dreams by the usual dropping of pants and you and I flopped down speechless the only thing escaping from our mouths were belly laughs because our bare asses were touching. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m so glad I found you.
projections Clara Dinkin
g e t ti n g i t Anisha Pai partner up, folks find your other half here human instinct never sleeps so share your bed till you’re sick of contorting conforming close the lid on that box ship it off to mail order bride and niall horan body cushion someone needs a cuddle someone needs a hug someone needs to brighten up someone needs to get some someone’s pussy is dry af & just needs a little whetting pet the pussy cat mmm hear that purr look at that glow you can look that good too! just 250 an hour, partner come and get your skinship here human instinct never sleeps something keeps it up all night every night winky face
headwater Katie Clark you, castle of river-salt / will the water into walking, fingers running upstream quiet stones | kitchen table | let our hands sink skin pebbles cold you: halved wet (what is underwater) (i mean your palm on my shoulder) (i mean push me deeper, fine) someday, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll tell you (subtle fluidity) what i meant when i said river i am trying to be shore-like (can you tell no one taught me how) instead, counter current / swim. trying treading. today, progress: spent twenty minutes lying on my back looking for the water where this ran from, smiled when you knew immediately and even how to spell it.
The Violinist’s Thumb Emily Williams You made paper dolls in the grit and the dust and with each bitter strain the river ran red like folds of cream. Remember when amber ash cracked in your mouth, and cabernet-soaked sinew betrayed wicked teeth on bone— you were bayou blessed and born where spiked spines crawl and the fireflies blink don’t look back, but your scissor-cut feet are still curled into the earth and your everglade tongue still blazes quick and dead, sweet and sultry, and there is no getting out. Polished hearts and broken strings; scissor-cut slacks and pointed shoes—Horsehair screams on a wire throat; She plays you and you sing.
Ellie Charoal, Chalk
fogged in cool Mollie Wohlforth
labour Anisha Pai
three lions, arms of chock wood between ivory teeth chase me down faux souqs, roaring hamali, come rise from the burning steps that are your family in pakistan, load and pack and stand, 50-year-old you, at my mercedes for 50 riyal from merciful manicured nails that, astagfirAllahi, won’t touch brown skin, sah? twenty four spokes on tiled garden patios speaking loud as silent barrows full of flowers screech maali; in christmas bonuses to burnt hindu flesh from my shiny BMW to your shitty bicycle these bloody idiots think they can do any bhagwas hain nah just hire another nepali one hundred and eight in blue marble gold etched on matte black in lettering so familiar and yet I cannot read the script that circles jasmines down my thin, black locks broken easily as each unoiled du’a that has never slipped from my mouth makes itself known not because i’ve heard the fecal comparison and have listened to the shameful denial of desi british sharia laws mocking ghuttural ghatari jokes at the expense of classmates they call kala. no. but because she shares them on facebook. e ach hadith, a salaam, the azan on her timeline of thick, black braids and unorthodox salwars that make me miss the bhur bhuva swaha in my kitchen and the rocking blue baby krishna but what does religion have to do with it when my matte kala passport is still enslaved by the country I call home?
Eleanor Stewart 27
tfw heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dirt Sarah Dauer i am tangled in the textured cracks of your cinnamon swirl palms so i crinkle up our poetry into an atom i am chipped nail polish painted over i am pushing the pebbles deeper into the earth with the heel of my knock-offs you are the dark splotches where the columns meet the ceiling, like spilled coffee no cream, no sugar the sun is brazing windows until they matte into opaque milky mirage, the corners of your mouth ripples wrinkle you are wet leaves when the air turns cold, drenched on the ground with soggy crackle, glossy disintegration into the sidewalk
‘Hagen’s Summer Madeleine Olson
This prelude to Copenhagen’s afternoon Marigold, halcyon, July, I bask in you Humbly bicycling old cobbled rosette streets, Clematises paint impressionism at my knees My red bicycle squeals, stutters, - sk-ski-ids to a stop Witnessing shafts of light walking on waters, I forgot How tossing coins into copper fountains could sound like euphony Or that the Nyhavan would reflect ripples of coloration beautifully Se! How estival complexion hints pink plums in children’s cheeks Soles spent on pedaling, so I slip off sandals and wade tired feet Oh Augustana, for who will taste this daylight? For if auburn hair turns honey, it becomes worth my hours to write It begins like this: Red handles Rust sunsets Reeds of grass in the pocket of my jumper Hagen’s summer.
Untitled Donari Yahzid The laugh was so powerful it made no sound. It rocked her body, grew in her belly. It became infectious and grew in mine. We gave, it snatched our breath, posture, and wit. It gave, we snatched spirit. We let it eat as we grew delirious. It gorged and became full before it let us breathe. To watch her laugh made me laugh, and our hunger fed on each other. She gave me crippled breaths that grew to fractured sounds. Her breath pleaded for mercy. She screamed the bliss of suppression and was enlightened. I awaited my scream, pounding palms against a marble floor, no longer my wooden table. When my scream erupted, our spirits made rest on our faces. We smiled. Why? Because what we released rang on our ears. Because it tickled our skin. Because there was reason to. Because there was no reason. When our faces relaxed, we smiled again in protest to let go. I looked for her willingness to return together, and deep within our bellies, strength began to grow.
SUNSET OVER LAKE CHAMPLAIN Rachel Schmieder-Gropen A month ago, you sent me a picture of the sunset over Lake Champlain. You said, “This is what it feels like to love you.” Why — because it ends? In retrospect the sunrise would have been a more romantic choice. In retrospect the sunset is a slippery thing to hold onto. Colors everywhere, but I’ll be damned if I can pick out the stars. And then night. Yes, my memories are still in full color. Yes, in them — I rise and fall, I sink below the horizon, I cycle through the light. And now I stretch my hand over your sleep-heavy body to the duct-taped lamp. Was that it, then? Our fire on the water? Our vast solar power? Soft murmurs and your lips fumbling for my cheek. In the morning, an empty bed, and light seeping through the blinders. No, don’t call me a cynic! I believe in love. And I believe it ends.
mirror house Katie Clark all you were & what was reflected: soft glass, the promise of fruit trees, soon, maybe.
i missed you Chloe Martin-Poteet there are berries outside your window hanging from the vines that crawl up the wall and peek into your room. the wind rushes through in bursts just long enough to take a breath, one that fills your lungs and inflates your ribs the color in my skin is going away like how the green fades in to yellow on the leaves of big oak trees. you brought color into my life this summer when the sun kissed our cheeks as you kissed me i think of how we spent our days and how we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know we were spending our days. i leaned back into you making sure you had me, i lean back now and no one is there to catch me as i fall into the stars that we used to stare at on top of her trailer as we talked about what was going to happen and the smell of whiskey trailed through the crisp air. i cried that night and the tears burned my face and you weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re wrapped up in her and i missed you the sun sets now and it reminds me of how we sat so many times to watch the sky change color. the pink of the clouds reminds me of how vibrant your face turns on nights we talk about our feelings and i miss you
what did the man say when he lost his tractor Katrina Meserve
this is breakfast Cameron Graham i. two hours of moonlight left, the sky is blueing as if to tell us: yes, i will storm today but first, dawn will run through me softly, and she will smile her pink smile at you and the dew from her lips will taste something like citrus ii. i am sighing as if to tell you: i canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait to see how blonde this morning will make you iii. weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in your car at 4 am, driving north on the only road off the island, and everything is gray and everything is green and we know this means florida is showing off for us today iv. in the summer grass we are watching the bay who raised us as her own sing her early songâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; humming low, the fishing boats we grew up on are going home. we open our mouths and the air is so humid there is no room for things that are not your blonde hair or my blonde hair or the world beginning as it is right now v. i am reminded i have never wanted to feel anything but this warm vi. i know how to swim and i know how to survive in a hurricane and i know that in 100 years at sunrise in july in sarasota i will still be peeling oranges with you
one at a time Madison Hulme 39
GUY FIERI IS MY COUSIN Dani Planer today , i am learning of the color green that smoking cigarettes permanently effects your DNA that there is an ice-cream truck humming the tune of happy birthday outside my window when i was 12 , having known turning sinks & moving tooth brushes reflected light in blonde i prayed for every person i could possibly ever love to be okay every night before i truly knew what i was praying for at all today , i would like to describe the color green to you how it reflects onto your hair some light your fingies holding to the corners of your mouth how it looks streaming from milk when i found you in a field with your legs in your arms green has been singing to me since you placed yourself at the bottom of the hill on the steps pingy playing sounds telling you “keep your legs they look beautiful in shorts” today , your porch glowing pink and mine existing still in georiga i am outside your door and i love you here in the bottom of the yellow house
Sta ff Editor-in-Chief Katie Clark ’19 Vice-President Dani Planer ’19 Treasurer Cameron Graham ’19 Layout Editor Casey Linenberg ’19 Assistant Layout Editors Kaitlin Boheim ’18 Issy Bohling ’20 Social Chair Salem De Geofroy ’20 Publicity Caroline Clowers ’18
Art Editor Emily Conley ’18 Mollie Wohlforth ’19 Nonfiction Editor Patricia Kelly ’18 Fiction Editor Rosalyn Leban ’18 Short Fiction Editor Ysabel Lavitz ’20 General Editors Zoë Barnstone-Clark ’19 Sarah Dauer ’20 Beata Garrett ’20 Madison Hulme ’18 Sarah Lofstrom ’19 Marisca Pichette ’19
Co ntri bu tor Bios Zoe Barnstone-Clark ’19 lives her life like Rochelle Malter ’18 found certain scenes she’s Samantha from Sex and the City, in Inglourious Basterds highly erotic and and writes poems about her escapades in also has no sense of shame. order to procrastinate. Chloe Martin-Poteet is watching the sunIssy Bohling ’20 has the soul of a farmer set right now. and the voice of a forest fairy. Katrina Meserve is from the coast of Thea Burke ’20 loves the idea of writing Maine and thinks tattoos are underrated creatively. When she can find the time and inspiration, she loves to actually do it, too. Madeleine Olson ’20 despised every poShe likes coffee, chocolate, and her cats etry assignment given to her in elementary to an unhealthy degree. school. Ten years later, here she is and ready to make it her life endeavor. Bold Katie Clark ’19 is the Editor-in-Chief of statement? Not at all. Moneta and maybe a corgi. Most of Katie’s poems are accidental potted plants. Anisha Pai ’19 is a nogood boyo. Carrie Clowers’ poems are about you.
Marisca Pichettev ’19 divides her life between sleeping and thinking about sleepSarah Dauer ’20 cries a lot in the library ing. She writes when she’s not spilling tea and can never seem to find the moon. But all over her notes and her laptop. Her adshe’s happy. She’s really really happy. vice to others is: never underestimate the value of a paper-clip. Clara Dinkin ’20 likes music and poetry. dani planer likes trains Cam Graham’s poems aren’t about you. Rachel Schmieder-Gropen ’18 spends Madison Hulme ’18 knows that the clos- most of her time coming up with embarest she will come to a religious experience rassing nicknames for her dog. Current fawas April 23rd 2016 when Beyoncé and vorites include Bento Box and Sir Bentley Warsan Shire released their visual master- VII, Earl of Northumberland. piece, Lemonade. Emily Williams ’18 enjoys the euphoric Coraline Kowalczyk is a French student rush and crippling sense of shame that who likes cats, clouds, and Jorge the comes with online shopping. goose. She aspires to become a writer and takes photographs when she feels like Mollie Wohlforth ’19 is probably your it. Oddly enough, she preferred to submit grandmother and just wants to make you a picture rather than a text. a nice soup. Donari Yahzid is the mad decent Drake
Moneta: The Art and Literary Journal of Mount Holyoke College
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