Coupled beneath heavy blankets they dozed, untroubled by weather; inspired, betroved. After first, second, third, breakfast, they rose; shadows in candlelight glow, unclothed. The kissing of hallowed relics in Durham is allowed, I’ve heard. As is the giving of chips to crows. In the cenotaph garden at Amble, the clocks are still, for the living. … Continue reading The Best of Whitney Houston.
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