Our thing progresses I call and you come through Blow all my friendships To sit in hell with you But we’re the greatest They’ll hang us in the Louvre Down the back, but who cares? Still the Louvre.
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. — Kate Chopin, The Awakening
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