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“The stars grow tired, shrug their shoulders, and fall out of the sky, wearing nothing but robes of comet-white. Is she not one of the stars? She casts off her robes—steps into my room—and composes constellations.” — Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev
The stars grow tired, shrug their shoulders, and fall out of the sky, wearing nothing but robes of comet-white. Is she not one of the stars? She casts off her robes—steps into my room—and composes constellations.