Posts Tagged ‘Chambourcy’

Evening Constitutional

April 28, 2013

This is my last evening in Chambourcy, France.

I decided to take Rusty out for another walk after dinner.  The sun had come out and was lancing through the trees and despite the chilly air it actually looked like Spring outside.

I went for two long walks today.

I read a lot.

Finished the Jeffrey Eugenides book, Middlesex, good read.  Much better than I remember.  As I was completing the 500 + page work I realized I was not sober when I read it the first time and was allowing myself to suffer from writer’s envy.

No longer.

Part of that stems from the fact that I am a writer now.

Perhaps not as well-known as Eugenides, slight understatement.

Yet, a writer nonetheless.

I wrote my four pages in the morning after breakfast and a couple of cups of coffee, then did a meditation before the dog got noisy and excited to be outside, then went for the first of my walks.

After returning I made a heaping salad–baby spinach, mache, tomato, miniature artichoke hearts, mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, avocado, and garbanzo beans.  Dressed with some olive oil and balsamic, little fresh ground pepper, and sea salt.


I down loaded some photographs after and checked my e-mails.

I conferred with the room-mate and made plans for tomorrow.

Despite the family being back tonight, they are in the kitchen having a late dinner, they requested I stay the night so they would not have to drive back to the train station.

I acquiesced.

Tomorrow I will go back to Paris, back to the apartment and break down the bike and box her up.  I was contemplating taking one last ride, but I will probably not.  I have a late afternoon tea date with my friend from French class–need to return her guide-book on Rome.

Then an early dinner and off, one last time to the American Church on quai D’Orsay.

I have some last good byes to make.

In the mean time I am also making contact with folks in the Bay.

I am seeing Beth on Friday night, staying over and having lunch the next day with Tanya somewhere in the Mission.


That still feels very strange to say.

I will be having lunch in the Mission.

Getting in on Wednesday, Action Girl will be picking me up, living up to her moniker!

I am excited to see her, possibly get a hit of Junebug love as well.

I contacted the master of the house at Graceland, confirmed my get in time and prepared myself for the onslaught of the kittens.  Of whom, I am delighted to get to see again.

I e-mailed some ladies in Oakland about possibly getting out to meet with some folks that evening.  I have nothing planned for Thursday, recovering from the jet lag, maybe grocery shopping.

Friday before I head into San Francisco I will be making my way over to the Burning Man folks, meeting with them to discuss the nannying and then meeting with their next door neighbors to check in about the house sitting needs.

One dog.

One cat.

I then re-focused on being here, today, in the moment.

Made some tea.

Got off the computer.

Did some writing.

Did some reading.

I wrote for a while and wrapped up the first chapter of “Mother” in rough draft.

I then read through to the end of my first draft manuscript “The Iowa Waltz” and was quite happy to read it.  So much better than I had recalled and I was actually surprised at how the ending went.  I had forgotten!

My friend yesterday had suggested I work on a new piece, and he’s correct, new work needs working on, which I did.  Yet, the call of taking “The Iowa Waltz” further was very alluring.

Since I have read the hand written manuscript, I may just do the typing to take it out of my notebook.  I am not making any plans.


None at all.

Although the previous 600 words may belie that.

“What are your plans?” Asked John Ater this evening when I skype called him.

“I don’t have any,” I said, “whenever I make plans the Universe laughs.”

“Are you wearing mascara?” He asked.

“Yes, but its waterproof and I am not wearing eyeliner,” I replied.

The eyeliner is what usually is the mess.

We had a really good check in, one in which I did mention that I was pre-anxious about other people’s judgement, me coming back after I said I was gone for good.

“Fuck what other people think of you,” he said.

God damn it’s nice to hear that.

Despite knowing that he’s entirely correct and I need no shame, I came here, I had an incredible learning experience and I did something really grand.

I shot the fantasy in the fucking foot.

Living in Paris was a dream and I went after my dream and I realized it and then I went, “oh shit,” this is not at all what I thought it would be.

Oh my God.

This is 1800 times harder.

“Good for you for knowing when to get out,” she said to me tonight as the dog pranced happily about.  “Paris is hard for French people to live in and they have the support of their country and a system to fall back on when things go wrong.”

Paris, I love you, I adore you, I think you are the bees knees.

I got stung hard though.

It hurt, having that dream popped.

Yet, on the other hand, it was well worth it.

“You had a learning experience,” he said templing his fingers together, his eyebrow lifting up in an arch.

“Yes, yes, I did.” I responded.

“What did you learn?” He asked leaning forward on California time and adjusting the lapel of his bathrobe–it’s morning in San Francisco.

“I learned I am very mean to myself, that I do not treat myself well,” I said, and there went the tears.

“What else?”

“I learned that people really want to help me when I let them help me, when I let down the guard and let them in.”

“Good, and,” his chin lifted.

“And I don’t want to live like this anymore,” tears overflowing, “I don’t want to live like this, I want to change,” I finished.

“Excellent, we will have us a sit down when you get back, but not right away, let’s let you get unjetlagged before we go there.” He said with a gentle smile.

“Oh!” I said, smiling, “I learned one other thing!”


“I will work any fucking job there is to work, I am done with not having a job.” I finished.

“Great! We will talk about that too, now just get yourself back.” He twinkled at me, “I can’t wait to see you.”

“You too,” I said and yes, a few more tears slid down my face.

“Are those tears!  Yes! seven thousand miles away, I’ve still got it.” He exclaimed.

“Yes, ugh.” I said, “good-bye.”

“Good bye sugar, I’ll see you soon.” He tossed me a kiss and a wave and signed off.

Yes, yes you will.

In San Francisco.

Limbo Land

April 27, 2013

All alone in a great big house, the dusk starting to fall, the grey clouds heavy on the horizon, pregnant with the inevitable rain.

Dreary, cold, and clasped still in the bosom of winter the weather belies the light that still lingers nearly 9 o’clock at night.

I had no idea it was as late as it was, sitting curled up on the couch deep into a book.

I must have read about 200 pages today.

Not a normal occurrence in my every day life, a luxury, a taste that I am beginning to become more accustomed to.

Despite knowing that it will go back to being sips and snatches, quick drinks of words as I assimilate back into the states.

I find that I can slide back there quite quickly, messaging with a friend, skype’ing with another, texting from my Iphone, sending out little feelers into the Universe, the ethernet of possibility.

I feel a little caught between the here and the there as I consult the world clock on my phone–Paris, Cupertino, New York, and Sao Paulo.

“You should go to New York, you would eat that shit up after Paris,” he said to me today on the chat line.

I do feel a little New York is in me at times, no pun intended.

I sent a query out to an agent in New York today.  I send a lot of queries to agencies in New York, that is where the preponderance of them seem to be.

That and LA.

I have never had a LA vibe though.

Not quite my thing.

I am more NorCal than SoCal.

That was about as much as I did today, chatting with a friend, went for a couple of walks with the dog, ate a big juicy salad, drank a lot of tea, looked over some photographs–happy to report I asked a friend to help with backing up the photos.

I also did install Google drive to that extent, though I am uncertain whether or not I actually successfully transferred all my photos.

Something was happening, the fan on my computer went into protestation mode and I got nervous about continuing.

On the list of things to get when I get my feet back under me, a new laptop.

I may be just worrying for no reason, but it may be a wise investment before it goes kaput.

I also started a project today, just went and pulled a blog post from 2011 that I wrote about nannying at Burning Man and re-organized it a bit, tightened it a bit, and did some editing on it.  I am going to write-up a proposal for Chronicle Books.

I will also confer with a few folks about it, there are some photographs out there that I did not take that I want for the piece.

My friend suggested I start something new.

Something that is not what I have been working on for a while.

I like the thought and with that in mind I got the first piece situated.

I have a lot of material, it just needs organizing.

Like my life.


I have potential spouting out my ears, it feels like, but no solid direction, do I want a family, do I want to be a writer, do I want to make money, do I want career, do I want to own a home, if so where, ack.

I cannot figure it out.

“Use your words, ask for what you want,” he told me.

They get crammed up in my throat, these words, stuck like a tickle, fluttering high in my consciousness like an unruly jay squawking out harsh jabs of doubt.

Let’s have it all, shall we?

If wishes were horses and beggars did ride, where would I ride to?

After exploring San Francisco and Paris, right now I would hazard San Francisco.  I do not like admitting defeat, but I recall that surrender means to go over to the winning side.

I do not know that I want to return to France to live.

Honest injun.

This is hard.

I know I take me with me wherever I go and many a time I create my own issues in the taking, but it is a challenge living an expat life, even if you have money.

If you don’t let’s make it 10 times harder.

Now, I am not afraid of hard work, life can be a grind, but I choose to be polished by it rather than ground down.

Being in Paris is being ground down when I have found work that could sustain my frugal little life.  I wasn’t being polished, I was being worn apart, I wasn’t writing happily or much when I was working crazy ass hours babysitting trying to just pay rent and eat.

I am an artist.

And as such that does not work for me.

I have to be somewhere I can work, but not work myself down to the bone.

Having had space, both too much and not enough, here in France, I realize I need some structure, a job is good for that, and not too much free time, but enough.

I am dangerously close to veering off into figure it out land.

I feel that I have perhaps put myself in a corner when there is a door behind me opening up and out and I cannot see it as I did not achieve what I set out to achieve here, in France, living abroad, living in Paris.

I am not disparaging the experience.

I will not know how living here for six months has changed me until I have a little more perspective on it.  I know that the experiment was successful, even if I did not get the results I wanted.

What I want is generally not good for me.

Something wild and fragrant and delirious has been culminating in the crucible.

I know it.

I will continue to stir the pot to the best of my ability, not going crazy in these last few days either figuring it all out or berating myself for not having the answers.

The answers are none of my business anyway.

Whether in San Francisco.


Or Chambourcy.


Or in my own head.

The last is the only truly dangerous place to live.

The rest is honey, unbridled and sweet with potential and pear blossom nectar.

Pear Orchard

Pear Orchard

Feels Like A Sunday

April 26, 2013

Despite it being Friday night.

However, I am out in Chambourcy, just outside of Saint Germain-en-Laye, France.

I am already in my pjs, and it is just before 8 p.m.

I just got out of the gigantic bathtub in the master bath and I felt no compunctions about putting on my Hello Kitty sleep shirt and yoga pants.

None whatsoever.

It has been a very relaxing kind of day, also, why it feels like a Sunday.

I have listened to jazz, gone for a walk with the dog in the woods, drank tea, curled up on the couch for a few hours while the rains blew in–just barely got back from the walk before the rain started to drop–and a bath.

I am quite blissed out.

It is counter intuitive to my personality, this slowness.

I am not a good practitioner of the resting, slow down, mellow out school.

I mean, come on, my blog subtitle is “Girl on the Go.”

That’s what I am usually up to or going to.

I realized as I was plugging in this person there and that person here and what BART would I take to get from Oakland to SF to see such and such and maybe I can squeeze that errand in here, that I was not in California yet.

I was in Chambourcy.

I put down my Iphone and turned on the music.

Jazz for the majority of my day and for a little throwback fun, I am now listening to some new age–Thomas Dolby, The Golden Age of Wireless.

It always reminds me of my last summer after highschool before I started my freshman year at University of Wisconsin, Madison.  We had sold the house in Windsor and I was living with my mom in a small two bedroom apartment on East Johnson Street.

The entire apartment was about the size of the room I had previously been occupying.

I escaped with friends from school.

Not my school either.

Although I had some friends from DeForest High School, I had left abruptly, the house had sold faster than I thought it would and we actually moved before I graduated from highschool.  I was the only person that did not show up for the dress rehearsal for graduation.

I had no clue it was happening.

I was busy helping my mom box up the house and move into the tiny apartment.

I was embarrassed and shy and scared, although from the front I put on, you would never have known.  No one in my group of friends knew that I had run away from home just a few months prior to graduation.

I had nowhere to go.

I ran away to school.

I slept in the back of the bus in the back parking lot I had broken into.

My swim coach had some suspicions, but did not discuss them with me.  He did however stop handing over my paychecks to my mom from the lifeguarding shifts I was doing after I asked him to not do it any more.

That may have been the first time I had really stood up for myself.

I am still learning how to do so.

It takes a little more time than one would think.

I still feel like a young woman finding herself out in the world.

I still want some one to tell me what to do.

I find that people pleasing is just a way for me to be in control of my environment.  Though the fact, amply substantiated by years of evidence, is that I do not have control of my environment.

The more I can let go of that, the freer I am.

I wanted to feel guilty about being out here in the country, taking it easy, but really, it is a bit of work.  I traveled from outside the city early in the morning to the city center, walked through thorough fares teeming with tourists hauling my pack of stuff with me like a college kid on sabbatical, up and down train station steps to the next Metro line to the next RER.

I do not mind work though and as I sit here berating myself, not as hard as I used to, I know that I will continue to do what is put in front of me to do.

Usually it’s just the dishes.

I don’t remember doing a lot of dishes that summer.

I remember I went to the pool nearly every day, riding my bike from the East side of Madison on Hwy 51 to DeForest.  My friend Jay had no idea I had actually moved to Madison until one night after the pool closed he offered to give me a lift and as I directed him past the Windsor Road turn off I finally broke the news to him.

The friends I hung out with were from Sun Prairie.

I had met one of them when I was in middle school in Madison.

When we moved to Windsor she and I stayed in touch.

Then her family moved to the outskirts of Madison and she was relocated into the Sun Prairie school system.  I would go weekends to her house in the country to escape the crazy at my house.

Not that I even knew it was crazy.

But when your step father makes you cut the grass with hand shears and the lawn is about an acre, there is some crazy going on.

My friend’s mom had her own struggles, I am sure of it, looking back with perspective, however, she seemed to make do in a way that I still admire.

She cooked and baked and made stained glass ornaments and windows in a little studio off the side of the house.  The house did not have running water, there was a well, hooked up to a motor, and there was an outhouse, but it was more civilized than anything I had experienced.

The bread she made still makes my mouth salivate.

One of my favorite smells to this day, hot bread fresh from the oven, mixed in with the scent of cut grass on a warm dusky night, topped with butter and mulberry jam she made I don’t know that I ever wanted to leave.

I was not always that fond of the friend, but man, did I love her mom.

I love my mom and I know she was just doing what she could, but that summer a lot of stuff fell out and I just knew my life on my own was really starting.  I took what fun I could and tried to cram the worry away in a bolt hole.

Worrying about the future does me no good, it takes me away from the blooming pear orchard out the window of the house here in Chambourcy France, where the sun has gathered one last welter of light to push the edge of the clouds apart and shafts of golden lace are caught high in the balls of mistletoe in the trees at the periphery of the lawn.

I was never at ease in my younger girl days.

I am now, which may explain the glitter and the pink and the fondness I have for childish things and toys, yes, my vibrator is pink, but it took me a god awful long time to get to this point.

I am going to enjoy myself to the utmost.

I am aware that the road is about to change and I am about to change again, I still carry the core of girl within me though, and today I am alright with it.

I have no regrets.

I really don’t

Here in France.

Four more days.

Where Ever I Go

March 29, 2013

There I am.

I was sitting in a pool of light during the golden hour as the sun set through the trees along the edge of the orchard, the rays caught up in the balls of mistletoe winding its way through the branches.

I looked at the spread in front of me, my most important things.

My laptop, my camera, the iPhone, my regular burner phone, notebooks, a book I just finished reading, the rough draft manuscript of The Iowa Waltz, and the new manuscript I started earlier this week, as well as a bag of pens, and a large pottery mug with a blue striated glaze, full of black tea.  I was at the large dining room table seated in a tufted caramel leather chair, the dog, Rusty, bumping my hand occasionally for extra pets.

I looked out over the hills, the trees, the vineyards, and the sky.

I could be anywhere.

I could be in San Francisco.

I could be in Wisconsin.

I could be in France.

I was alone in the world, yet I did not feel lonely.

I had decided today to give up the last of my ghosts.

I am done struggling for France.  Paris, you are a dream, France, I could get used to you, but I am done trying so damn hard.  Or thinking that I am not trying hard enough.  I have done as well as I could with what I have.  I have come here, nearly five months now, seeing as much as I could, crying a lot, going to museums, taking walks, doing work, helping others, getting humble.  I can go anywhere and have this experience, it does not have to be Paris.  It does not have to be France.

As long as I am alive and I am able to say yes to the Universe, I can go anywhere.

The question will be where.

I wrote this morning that I would let go and be in the moment today as much as possible.  I would accept myself and my situation for exactly what they are.

What they are is simply quite lovely.

A slumber party with me, myself, and I.

I woke early to feed the dog and let him outside, but I went right back to bed thereafter.  I did not sleep in much past what is normal for me, but my sleep was so satisfying I did not have to sleep longer than normal to feel rested.  The bed was a dream.  The sun coming in through the windows let me know what time it was.  Time to get up, make the bed, kneel, ask for directions and listen.

I made a nice breakfast–oatmeal with banana and golden raisins, sunflower seeds, cinnamon and nutmeg.  I had two lattes.  I wrote four pages long hand in my morning journal.  I sat and meditated.  I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and skipped the makeup.  The dog did not care that I did not have mascara on.  I gathered up a bag with my camera, a bottle of water, and the leash and headed out the door.

We walked the path winding through the back yards of properties near the house.  On one side modern interpretations of older homes on the other, pear orchards, bee hives, a horse paddock, a golf course, swimming pools, tennis courts.  The path is accompanied by a brook and the chatter of the stream slipping over the rocks with the occasional splash of Rusty jumping in and out was one of the few sounds I heard.

The rustle of leaves.

The scatter of doves flying up from a copse of trees.

The call of rooks in the turned over field by the stone wall.

A dog barking.

Geese in the field and a number of birds who I could not identify, grouse I believe and some sort of wood-pigeon, and a kind of jay or mocking-bird that is big and brassy and I have seen chase off crows with impunity.

The air was full of smudged wood smoke from the apiary and the sun was bright.  Despite the temperature not being as warm as I would have liked, once I had my walking pace established I warmed right up.  The path wended along the golf course, then up and into the woods.  I walked until my legs hummed and my head was clear and there was nothing to be or do except eventually turn back towards the house for a late lunch with a cup of tea.

I knew what I had to do.

I had to read.

I had to write.

I had to say it does not matter what happens next week or next month.

It does matter what happens in the next hour.  I have been given exactly what I wanted, time and space to read and to write.  Would I use it?  Would I actually sit down and pick up the pen and the new work and write, or would I pester my heart with worry?  It felt like a kind of test, if given exactly what I have asked for would I actually step up and do it?  The hardest thing to do, I find, is to actually sit down and give myself the time.

I am much better at thinking about it or worrying about it or wondering when the next time will come to me and then I will be happy.

And then it will be alright.

It is alright right now.

The sunshine flooded over my head as I bent to the page and the pen flowed and I was suddenly gone, transported, I was in the bathroom on the second floor of the apartment on Madison’s North East side–Packer Townhouses–low-income apartments that still exist.  I was describing a scene between myself as a ten-year old girl and my mother.  It was powerful to be so transported.  I could feel the cold under my feet.  I could smell the cigarettes on my mom’s breath–Merit Menthol Light 100s–I could see the color of her eyes and feel her holding my arm.

I could hear, oh almost too clearly, the words she was saying.

And I could hear the fear inside them channelling themselves out to me.

Fear that scared me, scarred me, and changed me.

I continue to change and I feel that acceptance come to me as I wrote and wrote and wrote, nine pages long hand, over an hour, and then I looked up.

The sun behind the trees, the grass sloping down the hill, the bark of a dog off in the distance.

Where was I?


I am always here.

And no matter where I go, I go with me.

No matter how it happens, I am alright.

I may not succeed at writing the way that others do.

I may not write the way that I think I should.

But I write.

That is good.

That is me.

I am a writer.

I do not need a book deal, an agent, or to be published and promoted in the New York Times.  You cannot take my words from me, they fall like spattered drops of sunshine upon this bowed head and I am successful.

I wanted God to tell me what to do today.

I wanted to know exactly where I should go and how I should be.

It wasn’t where I thought.

I was taken to a place thirty years ago, walked through the doors of a little girls heart and eyes and to see with much compassion the woman holding her arm and the woman who I would become under the influence of those experiences.

“I cannot tell you how lucky you are,” he said, his dark eyes a smolder of directness and intent, as he leaned over his knee to look me directly in the eye, “most writers would kill to have the experiences you have had.”  He paused, “you really are blessed.”

Yes I am.

So where ever I end up next, I will not worry, I have a place to be.

A table to sit at.

A pen to hold.

A notebook to write in.

A story to tell.



March 28, 2013

Is a small town outside of Saint Germain-en-Laye, half hour train ride from Paris.

I am house sitting this weekend.

The babysitting is done.

I made it.

The parents were thrilled.

I was equally thrilled.

Not only was I of service, and I know I was, I made rent for April.  I paid the room-mate off as soon as I walked in the door of the apartment.  Granted, he was happily snoring away in his room and no doubt had not a clue that the pile of Euros on the table were for him, but I knew, and that felt immensely satisfying. It was also fulfilling to know that I was able to help the family have a really nice time.  I got hugs from mom, dad, and both the kids.

It was sweet.

The gig basically paid my rent for April.  The two other gigs I did, one in Courbevoie and the one in Invalides helped, but it was really working with the visiting family that fulfilled the rent.

I don’t know how to continue forward.

I just got off a Skype call.

I laughed  a lot, I flirted a lot, and yes, I cried.

I may start-up right now.

Ah, there you are my friends, tears of surrender.

I just don’t know how to move forward.

“I don’t want you to go, you know,” she said to me over the phone earlier this evening as I was walking back to the house, Rusty trotting ahead of me, sniffing every patch of grass and leaving behind his mark on every fence post.

I looked into the sky and felt my chest tightening, the tears threatening, the emotion just there, tasting it on my tongue, feeling it course through my body.

“I want you to stay too, I just don’t want to see you struggle so hard, it’s not been easy and,” she paused and I looked up into the softening sun hazed behind the clouds low on the sky as she searched for words.  “You can try again, you can go back, make money, find work, and try again.  I don’t want you to think that I want you to leave, I don’t.”

That was good to hear, actually, I needed to hear that and I had not even realized it until she had said it.  That the suggestion was not done because she wanted to get rid of me, not one person has said to me, “you suck, go away.”

It has not been easy, just that refrain pounding in my head, in the pulse of my blood, in the hot tears on my face.

Let me not fool anybody.

My photographs say one thing, and it looks mighty pretty, but the leveling of all things pride has been on a level I have not had experience with before.

I got a surprise 50 Euro in my Paypal account today and I did cry.

Thanks, bunny, you have helped out more than you know.

This whole thing, confusing, challenging, my head a mess of thoughts and with those thoughts, distraction from what is in front of me.

This house sitting situation is going to bear fruit aside from nice soaks in the big tub, quiet times with just the sound of the dog yawning from the next room.

It is also a chance for me to sit quietly and really listen to what is in my heart and to listen for the response from the Universe.  To put out there, to keep putting it out there that I really do want to stay and how it happens is not my plan and well, let it go and listen.  How do I take care of myself?  How do I find my way forward?  I don’t know how to plan and I don’t know how to do things differently than I am already doing.  I try tweaking here, adjusting there, I feel sheepish and exhausted, elated and overwhelmed.

I have the experience of a life time just having gotten here.

My best friend from Wisconsin pointed out to me that she has never been to Europe.

I am coming up on five months of living in Paris.

No matter what, I have this experience.

I want to throw my hands up and I keep sticking my fingers back in the pie.

“You’re not going are you?” Another friend asked this afternoon.

“What’s your status?” My friend Ray asked in line at Bert’s to get coffee.

“How’s it coming?” Still another person.

“Don’t go.” She said to me.

Well, damn it, I don’t want to.

I want to be here when he gets here and show him Paris and walk with some one hand in hand and I don’t want to be alone trying to do this thing anymore.

God, that’s a big part of it.

I am really tired of doing it on my own.

It’s not the asking for help bit, that’s awkward, I will admit it.

It’s the being alone, I mean in the romantic sense of the word.  I am damn good company and I do a lot for myself and I get out a lot, but at the end of the day I want to share my experiences with someone and laugh and be silly or sad by turns.  I want another hand in mine.

Ah, self-pity.

You’re a tasty bitch.

There’s nothing wrong here.

Fact is it’s just not turning out the way I want.


There, that’s out of my system.

I know, I am well taken care of, well-loved, and I love hard right the fuck back and I don’t have a regret and I don’t need to know what is going to happen.  I don’t.  What is happening is that for the next few days I have a quiet oasis for meditation, long walks, inflection, reflection, reading, and writing.  Throw in a hot bath or five, a fully stocked kitchen, and a dream of an espresso machine and there is absolutely nothing wrong.

Not one thing at all.

I am loved.

I am.

I love myself.

And as for the rest of it, it will all suss its way out, it always does, despite getting in the way of myself, it always works out.

It will just be a delirious surprise.

It will be wonder.




It will be good.

Because it already is.

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