
IT IS LIKE STEALING from God. Like thrusting your hand in God’s orchard, yanking out a glowing ripened fruit, aware that He is somewhere watching. Everyone in class is sitting in pairs; giving gifts, receiving gifts; love simmering from their couplings, diffusing in the classroom like lemon-scented camphor. Harold buckles a bracelet around Diboh’s wrist; […]
from Brittle Paper http://ift.tt/2nvDzTc
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