“Have you not missed me?” He inquired. The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Now there is none. Death belongs to God, young man. Do you think I would marry you? Rather would I marry the pig in the convent.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExNi4yMC41MiAtIDE5LTA1LTIwMjQgMTY6NTQ6MDUgLSAxOTk2OTgwNTc0
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