"pascal" poems
Trump invades Nicaragua;
lights a powder keg to the
relief of everyone; let's get
on w/ it; change the world;
otherwise Nicaragua threatens
to become another Syria w/
Sandanista vs. Sandanista &
drug lords & communists;
mercenaries; contractors
& experimental weapons;
welcome to a world that is torn
completely in two to everyone's
relief for the sheer catharsis;
that is what frenzied freedom
looks & feels like; touches like,
smells like, ***** & eats like;
the madman in the marketplace
is the last person who can spell
Bourgeoisie & Ancien Régime;
Disestablishmentarianism &
Nouveau riche; time & technology
will turn the soil of psychology
churning up some never before
seen creature; mankind is suicidal;
this new Being will have no such
concept; coming in & out existence
like walking through a door; time
is meaningless running in countless
waves in all directions; space is
flexible like clay; women & men
create each other to the limits of their
imagination; Newton laid the foundation
& Einstein painted the ceiling; Pascal,
Hawking; Leibniz & Nietzsche & every
poet that ever lived or never lived; every
celestial siren & songstress who whispered
in a magical scribe's ear & he scratched
the miles & hours & places & people there;
thus, it began somewhere far out in space;
but they've been there all along; peaceful,
loving, able to shape-shift to perform
pleasurable functions in accordance w/
mankind's selfish wishes; mankind thinking
it's putting one over on the new species,
still finds itself bogged down in Nicaragua
long after Trump has built his Presidential
Library & joined the aliens like everyone
else; the poor Nicaraguans & Guatemalans
& Hondurans fighting it out to the death;
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
I shall talk a bit about Pressure,
It's about how it you can measure,
Learn physics well & earn a treasure.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:22 AM UTC
You're probably reading this from the same place I'm writing it
behind a desk
outside the box
trapped in a corporation
free in my thoughts
You're probably reading this for the same reason I'm writing it
because words matter
because it doesn't matter
the way everything matters
You're probably sick of reading
probably
yet we are hardly anything more than what can be proven
we're probably
the invention before probability
The loving likelihoods of life
like crawling before walking
like falling when learning to walk
like walking into runs
The statistics of confusion
divided for the mystical equation
of adding all things make believe
subtracting all things real
and solving you for yourself
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.
Far off in Paris, where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.
Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He'd had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.
And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.
So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.
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Tu transmigración será ir de cama en cama,
durmiendo raros sueños parejos al segundo ocaso,
de las fábricas del tiempo verás el eterno paso
y serás como una vana sombra urdida por el karma.
El misterio de la identidad es sostenido
por las divinas piezas que forman la memoria.
el cerebro, único amanuense de la historia
rapsodia el ser que miente lo que has sido.
En el vino que es nepente y en el delirio del mezcal
buscaste el rostro que tenías antes de crearse el mundo,
y aunque la fiera enferma te convoque a lo profundo
no evitarás esa sustancia doble como lago de sal:
La voluntad. Su potencia sugiere el arte o la copulación
y su tremendo motor vuelca decadencia en apogeo,
no escapan de su orbe las horas diseñadas por Morfeo
y su caravana te escolta de la abulia a la revelación.
Todos los días sos otro. Sin embargo,
hay algo que te pertenece:
la idea de la luna, el amor y la amistad,
la música, los dones y la fantasía.
a Pascal Quignard
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Scribbles and wine glasses lessen the barrage
of acid mist plastered against our glass facade
Subway stops and molecules would tear soul in few
Ripped ******* and mimosas remind me forcibly of you
Stand 4 and sodium
the swinging of the pendulum
Wishes and ***** dishes
Lost in New York City
The romeos say I'm so pretty
all is a dishonor
as time travels us farther
**** sonnets.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
“I want to live for myself.”
And you guessed it right.
This was me, before I met you.
Always wanting to be busy
To avoid all kinds of thoughts
That could devour me at night
Swallowing every bit of what I deemed right
And not knowing how to keep everything in sight.
I start my day with the usual waking up routine
Eyes opened at 5:15 to take a cold bath
Wanting to wake myself up. Or was I really awake?
For goodness’ sake, I had no idea
What was going on in my head
Keeping myself always on the edge
This was me, before I met you.
“Never will I meet someone
Who won’t get me hurt.”
And on and on and on it goes
With my mind, slowly killing
My deepest sense of who I really am.
What am I to myself
When all I could see
Is not being the person
In the mirror of my soul?
But, on that day,
It was different for me.
You were with an old friend
Reality was bent, for I had the chance
The opportunity of a lifetime
To meet that girl
Who only gave me one word answers
An awkward and shy person
Who happened to be a dancer.
This is the start of a new friendship.
Fast forward to next week
The month of November
So full of surprises
My friend gave me a pass
To a debut and alas, you were there too.
Didn’t have any intentions to pursue
But why was my attention always directed to you?
I attempted to relay my emotion through the phone call of the
Devotion that my old friend had for you, but
Looks like my world developed a deeper sense of purpose.
This was me after meeting you.
Another week has passed and a blockmate wrote me on the guest list.
The night was going well
When suddenly
A person enters the room
The room remained dark, but my world was shone a show of light.
Two stars aligned and in between, was your nose.
I couldn’t believe it. Why was I feeling this way?
At the end of the day, I couldn’t listen to the ways of my
Heart. It’s because you had a heart
For someone else.
But, “the heart has its own reasons that reason cannot understand.”
Why did Blaise Pascal have to word it so beautifully?
And to top it all off, why’d you have to be so beautiful?
I was about to go home alone, when you offered me a ride.
Initially, I waved a goodbye, but you wouldn’t let me slide
This opportunity to get to know you more.
So, you brought me home and before you dropped me off,
With those sleepy eyes accompanied by the soft soothing sound of your voice, you said,
“Good night.”
And in that moment,
I knew I was in love with you.
This is now me and will always be me
Because there is no day in my life now
That I am not changed
And it is only everyday in my world that
My love grows for you.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
Like two foci of an elliptical, your eyes entice me cause my cardiac muscles, to palpitate
As I estimate the distance between us
I have arrived at the conclusion that you are sitting approximately 5 feet and 11 inches away from me, 7 and half millimeters closer than yesterday.
As you sit there and I calculate your potential energy.
I find myself wishing I could change Y= mx+b into Y=you next to me, you are my complementary angle.
I long to whisper that newton law was just created for you.
Of course that not true, but logic doesn't matter anymore because my feelings for you are growing exponentially.
Like radiation you penetrate through my skin, you watched my veins branch like fractals
Like absolute zero, all molecules within me halted in that movement,your centripetal force sent me spinning when they say opposite attracts each other.
It figures seeing as the probability for you noticing me is exactly 1 in 10,032 but I long to coined my name on a love letter, you are my pascal behind my triangle.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
You could tell
by Mamie’s face
she was sick
of shish kebabs
in fact it seemed
that the whole Moroccan holiday
was kind of getting
to her sensibilities
from the standing
on the two brick toilets
to the shish kebab
food misadventure
let’s go walk
on the beach
she said
before I throw up
with this crap
and so you walked
with her down through
the path to the beach
the moon and stars
above in a black
patchwork sky
the sound of the sea
rushing in and out
and the voices
of the others
getting less
and less
and she said
looking up at the sky
isn’t scary that sky
why is it scary?
you asked
it’s so vast
like it goes on forever
she said
I think Pascal found
the immensity
of the night sky
disturbing
you said
Pascal?
Is he on the coach?
Is he on the tour?
she asked
no he was a mathematician
and physicist and inventor
and Christian philosopher
in the 17th century
oh right
she said
boring ****
come on let’s get
on the beach
and lay down
and stare
at the sky
and stars
and that bright moon
and then we can snuggle
up close
and we’ll see
what comes
and she pulled you
onto the beach
and the damp sand
eased itself
between your toes
and the smell of the sea
hit you
and the sounds
and the wind
from off the sea’s shoulder
and she pulled you
down on the beach
beside her
and you lay back
and looked up
and the vast sky
seemed to press down
on you both
and she laughed
and said
it kind of makes
you seem small
and insignificant
doesn’t it
she said
you felt her hand
in yours
a soft pulse
of her being
right there
like a small beeping drum
and she turned
and looked at you
and smiled
and her smile was captured
by the moon’s glow
and you said
we need to remember
this moment
this being here
this newness of being
and she laughed
and said
don’t get too deep on me
and she leaned in
close to you
and kissed you
and her tongue
entered you
and the whole sky
seemed to witness
the moment
seemed to want
to embrace the kiss
the bright humanness
in her moonlit face.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 8:42 AM UTC
Pascal said that w/in everyone
is a god-shaped void that can
only be filled w/ Christ, much
as snooch should only filled w/
***** w/ some trying to fill
the void w/ yet another void.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
One of many apologetic arguments
is an application of Game Theory,
as defined by “Pascal’s Wager”;
ideas of infinite gain make leery
skeptics doubt a likely existence
of an omnipotent and omniscient God,
Who is worthy of our time and talent.
They believe this premise is flawed,
as they willingly bet against Hell,
damnation and its infinite losses;
the discussion, of rational thought
and atheistic stances, crisscrosses
mental boundaries in search of Truth.
Is finite loss of luxury and pleasure
worth the Christian lifestyle today?
Where are you storing your treasures?
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Gen 1; Matt 6:19-20 and
More info on Wikipedia
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
Amazon
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Pascal avait son gouffre, avec lui se mouvant.
- Hélas ! tout est abîme, - action, désir, rêve,
Parole ! et sur mon poil qui tout droit se relève
Maintes fois de la Peur je sens passer le vent.
En haut, en bas, partout, la profondeur, la grève,
Le silence, l'espace affreux et captivant...
Sur le fond de mes nuits Dieu de son doigt savant
Dessine un cauchemar multiforme et sans trêve.
J'ai peur du sommeil comme on a peur d'un grand trou,
Tout plein de vague horreur, menant on ne sait où ;
Je ne vois qu'infini par toutes les fenêtres,
Et mon esprit, toujours du vertige hanté,
Jalouse du néant l'insensibilité.
Ah ! ne jamais sortir des Nombres et des Etres !
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I wanted to know what was real knowledge,
so I went to the wisest master, God,
Not to learn things of school or college,
But to go where no foot has ever trod.
.
God said," I know what you seek, child,
But if real knowledge is what you wish to gain,
You venture into mountains dark and prairies wild,
And go through joyful hurt and honoring pain."
.
I was ready to put up resistance,
Said God," To men you shall speak,
Who are the wisest of this existence,
And at the end you shall get what you seek."
.
And so I went to the Physicists,
On whose principles this world exists,
They asked, “Pascal’s law, Bulk modulus, Doppler effect, can you tell?"
I said," No sir, but like Newton, even I wondered why the apple fell."
"Sacrilege!" they said," You inelastic plastic, may your soul rest in hell."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Then I went to the scholars of Chemistry,
Who are the wisest in mankind's History,
They asked me," What about Dalton's law, KTG, inorganic Benzene, can you say?"
"Nothing, sir, but I wonder about molecules and atoms, night and day!"
"Sacrilege!" they said, " You miserable molecule, May in hell your grave lay."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Then I went to the supreme Mathematicians,
Whom I consider as God's own magicians,
They asked me," What on methods of solving DEs, LMVT, can you speak?"
"Nothing, sir, but I work on theorems of Euler, the mathematician Greek."
"Sacrilege!" they said," You rootless equation, may you end up in the Devil's steak."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Indeed, I felt sorry for their and the future generations' plight,
But at the end of the road, I realized God was right,
It’s not about knowing Pascal's, Dalton's or Euler's shouts,
Its knowing how to live life to your fullest, every time you breathe in and breathe out.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
Borges Arte Poética
Un breve mármol cuida su memoria;
Sobre nosotros crece, atroz, la historia.
Pienso que si pudiera ver mi cara sabría quien soy en esta tarde rara.
pienso y solo siento al pobre soñador de su propia persona el que no pierde ni un segundo en escribe, el escritor mas puro de el mundo, un elegante señor bigote, un montrou poeta, que para por momentos a sentir su corazon que siente el soñante de este mundo minisculo, que se hace cuanto los dias ya no son escrituras y las escritos no pueden recitar, recuerda el recitar, de el hombre invisible, el unico, el terrible infant born inborn wild man of the corn, he partakes indefinitely, he was nevertherland, he was norse, he was el bewolf olvidado, el fue irlandia, el fue prague, el entendio a kafka, fuera el pratimonio a el. tengo algo que te sorprende harvard boys, que piensan de virtudes, que es el intelectual en este mundo, gira y no alguien lo compro, se sabe que el mas sabio se retira y no dice nada, huevo de pascal, huevo de wells, huevo invisible, hombre divisible. moneda, oro, maya, azteca, o inca, enblema, de nativo que es la pena de vivira, existera, existera. vara till, uthärdar.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 11:36 PM UTC
How many complete pathways of choices are there?
OR
How many choices are left to achieve completion [!]
Either offers an accurate divisor into the number of possibilities "n" roughly at whatever is the above determined level which is a power called "m". n^m, roughly...divided by either the # of pathways or the choices that are left [!] to completion.
Either divisor will serve by ridding us of duplicate iterations of over-multiplied possibilities inside of roughly n^m.
Put another way, simple estimations of "n" at the indicated power level do not recognize that
1) more than one path arrives to a conclusion;
Nor do simple estimations at indicated power levels recognize that
2) apparent particulars from which to work toward completion are actually not different particulars--half of them are double counted at the level of being two choices from complete due to the dimensionality of the whole becoming complete.
So the impact of having a divisor is strongest either when:
1) working toward completion from levels that already include almost all dimensions of particulars or else
2) whenever operating at low levels of power which have only a few pathways.
Estimations of possibilities are easily too high if not considering the adjustments for cases 1) and 2).
These are for occasions of having more than one possibility.
However:
The number of complete outcomes that are reachable, divided by all choosable pathways = n/n = 1 .
Or else, any one outcome chosen from its penultimate particulars through to completeness = 1/1 = 1 .
Thus,
Singular possibility is by definition, complete, whole, created, ultimate, and embraced in all of its dimensions. It is both one easily won and/or one, fully, dimensionally itself.
(Whatever is not and is not divided,
or, is nothing left unchosen
= truly naught and something not found = 0.)
Sources: Closed dimensional choice paths (the geometry of the powers depicted) and Pascal's Triangle
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
A name so colors one, is anyone satisfied with
a nomenclature such as Myrtle or Prudence or
a name that shouts out a particular feature:
like Hogg, or ****
Who the hell is as lucky as Rene Descartes
or 'scuse me , my favorite, Blaise
Pascal. Wow. I wanna name me next newborn
Papa, see what becomes
do his pals
make fun.
Or, will he or she
suffer
under letters small
and
significant.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Zut alors, si le soleil quitte ces bords !
Fuis, clair déluge ! Voici l'ombre des routes.
Dans les saules, dans la vieille cour d'honneur,
L'orage d'abord jette ses larges gouttes.
Ô cent agneaux, de l'idylle soldats blonds,
Des aqueducs, des bruyères amaigries,
Fuyez ! plaine, déserts, prairie, horizons
Sont à la toilette rouge de l'orage !
Chien noir, brun pasteur dont le manteau s'engouffre,
Fuyez l'heure des éclairs supérieurs ;
Blond troupeau, quand voici nager ombre et soufre,
Tâchez de descendre à des retraits meilleurs.
Mais moi, Seigneur ! voici que mon esprit vole,
Après les cieux glacés de rouge, sous les
Nuages célestes qui courent et volent
Sur cent Solognes longues comme un railway.
Voilà mille loups, mille graines sauvages
Qu'emporte, non sans aimer les liserons,
Cette religieuse après-midi d'orage
Sur l'Europe ancienne où cent hordes iront !
Après, le clair de lune ! partout la lande,
Rougis et leurs fronts aux cieux noirs, les guerriers
Chevauchent lentement leurs pâles coursiers !
Les cailloux sonnent sous cette fière bande !
- Et verrai-je le bois jaune et le val clair,
L'Epouse aux yeux bleus, l'homme au front rouge, ô Gaule,
Et le blanc Agneau Pascal, à leurs pieds chers,
- Michel et Christine, - et Christ ! - fin de l'Idylle.
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Two days into being back in Van Lear upon onset emergency,
I feel trapped in my childhood home and engulfed by jingo lobbyists who have posters of Ronald Reagan,
And I read about Pascal's Wager in an essay by William Buckley to realize how anyone, in annoyance, could fall into conservatism.
I come home and all the farmers are talking Communist uprising,
But back in the university the Mormon professors are talking up our structure and that we should roll with the punches.
Noting that everyone disagrees on something,
Everyone back home is too sessile to talk or debate the issues.
I must leave at once and argue with tact about the grander schemes of life and money,
I'm just getting started.
///
This is not a place where you can accumulate *** and alcohol,
And thus not a safe space for creative expression and thought...
In the dormitory halls I would put on my Aztec print sunglasses and parade the hallways declaring myself the most immortal of men from third to fourth floor.
And then you inevitably get trapped in a two story country house,
Cry for the fact that the sky is too calm.
Nothing happens here.
Nothing happens here...
It makes me uncomfortable.
Let me sit in the corner of room 403 and meditate with more excitement than a shouting match here,
Or how everything is so quiet and we're waiting for a phone call of awful news.
They all must think I eat nothing,
I subsist on nighttime ghost stories, or something,
I'm a creature of the night,
Then who are you,
Man of American with your European jaw,
Or King of all men who dare to call themselves free,
Why is it that in a decade of invention and creativity
That it's the appeal of brawn that wins out continually?
We are regressing.
Eastern Kentucky is the center of the wound,
The eye of barbarism and I am not welcome.
I will move west to spite my family and then become successful to spite society.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
I have remained in silence and solitude for quite some time now. Yesterday, I encountered Pascal for the first time. I was so moved by him that I decided to murmur from the bottom of the well in which I currently reside. The following is just pointless minor thoughts about him and, the most hated form of writing. a haiku or two inspired by Pascal.
#1
Hands over your heart
Belly facing the moonlight
Back riding the tide
#2
Where do I belong
Does gravity have family
We get along fine
#3
When I look out past the moon, the things I see have already occurred. From the opposite point of view, have we already occurred? They told us to prepare for our future when we were growing up. Our time here is quite short, to describe it generously. I like to think that staring into the night sky gives my soul a chance to get a head start. I hope it isn't considered cheating.
#4
We look up to space
It does not look down on us
But we are noticed
#5
Truth is just a definition. I never took the time to look it up in a dictionary. Every dictionary was originally created by a human. That means somebody was the first to define truth. I think I need to read the table of contents, maybe even the foreword. Who has a signed first edition?
#6
The sea pulls me out
Secrets splash into my ears
The tide returns me
#7
"One pascal is the pressure exerted by a force of magnitude one newton perpendicularly upon an area of one square metre." He wasn't named after the complicated equation. I doubt he even has a water proof calculator.
#8
My rambling will seem utterly pointless to anyone, but myself. Worst part is that I won't even be able to see these from the stars, but I'll still understand my current self at some point. Maybe we can share perspectives, if you ever find me. Please don't search for me, search for yourself.
#9
No double digits
The silence shall continue
Thank you for living
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC
A discontented silence raised itself among the fellows
Which of us?
Then it becomes a ******* race.
I write to seek and to find
Please, someone define the languish of hypocrisy
I can do me all by myself
Scattered brain splattering
Jackson Pollock's word-painting
Find Pascal's triangle inside me
I hope it's in the mouth.
Arbitrary. Periods.
Here I am, delirious
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Epigenetics
Avoiding Dementia
Will's Wellness Wager
Jun 10, 2021
Jun 10, 2021 at 5:11 PM UTC
i hate exclusive writing websites, it feels more about eyeing a clock of readers and favourites and keep safes than anything to do with progress; also the stuff that gets the worthwhile attention for a digestive system inquiring about an alt. diet is, in fact: well, some write for waitresses and bartenders, those who like language just as it is... obediently, instruction manual of a narrative, the: "it will never happen to me so i can feel cosy;" but some hate the way language is crafted for reason as mentioned prior: and bypass the waitresses and bartenders for a nitrogen meal with a whiskey sour.
ever play shadow ching chang wollah?
you loose the paper stone and scissors,
and you end up
imagining you're on the long haul
of drugs doing a 12h acid ******
not the mile high business class
of a 15minute ******* quickie,
you're next to the ****** teenagers
drinking away as the marathon man,
anyway, with this shadow ching chang wolah,
you loose the paper stone and scissors
on the jesse james draw;
what you get is a creepy spider,
a parkinson's flashlight dropped in a ghost
house reminiscent of a heartbeat,
a rabbit, that old classic,
and the laughed at crescendo of a crow
using two hands! messerschmitt the hands do!
*or like i end every arguments with my father: father, you're a brilliant exponent of bad faith, brimming-full with negations, but i rather your bad faith than the anti-existentialist cartesian good faith with pascal's twinkle: brimming-full with contradictions due to the coupling of thought to doubt; and i'm old enough to read these old leather chair **** books for a wrinkles' worth of tear, otherwise why would we send these idiots en-route 180º from the sciences and productivity? it's interesting this, the post-cartesian experiment: but it makes people annoying, i deny, therefore i think, makes it great to boil an egg and not think of a better solipsism. but i laugh it off: i could have been a proper drug dealer for psychiatrists, but i ended up being a proper theory synthesiser. but you know that denial breeds no faith as doubt does, well it does, faith-in-itself, which makes the self a keener protagonist, which is not really beneficial to slump and ride two thousand kilometres at four miles per hour.*
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
For Thomas V. Morris and William J. Bennett
In gratitude for a wonderful summer at Notre Dame
O, thou dry Jansenist! A night of fire
Left in your pocket like a shopping list
Sitting quietly in a room, will never burn
To set your sere and withered soul alight
And one might wager that your calculator
In brass, for counting brass, touches not the heart
Which has its reasons which the mind knows too
Pensees which never make a night a day
Forgive thou, then, this lettre provinciale
And count it as a friend’s memorial
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC