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Tu es mon amour et toute ma vie. You are my love and all my life. Tu es mon amour , Charlie Greel, mais chaque fois que je te regarde,. You're my heart , Charlie Greel, "but every time I look at you,"I've got to put it behind me and start again. Tu es mon amour , Charlie Greel, mais chaque fois que je te regarde You're my heart , Charlie Greel, but every time I look at you Tu es mon amour You are my love Nelly, tu es mon amour.

You are my love. You are my love , O traveller Tu es mon amour. You're my heart. Profonde et infinie comme la mer Tu es mon amour et toute ma vie. Mais tu es mon amour! Very Good 2. Good 3.

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Sold listings. More refinements Additional navigation. They could drive me crazy talking like that. I could sense there were bigger things behind stuff they'd say, but couldn't figure out what they were.

The Orange Grove

Not even now, when I'm drifting in and out of dream-substance. I could guess, of course. But I wanted to know. I wanted to understand that grownup-speech. I wanted to use it myself. I wanted to drive my own kids crazy. I wanted to live. Beatrice Anderssen-Long was a tall woman with a mop of bristly red hair. She could pick up Harry the Slut with one hand. She did. Bea let Harry go and covered her face with her hands. They were wide, long-fingered, slightly reddish, with large knuckles and chewed nails.

Harry liked her hands anyway. There was very little about Bea he didn't like. It would be all right. It usually was.

Kafka, l'eternel fiance

He pulled his shirt back into place--it had slipped almost over his head when Bea picked him up--and dusted his trousers. Bea bit her thumbnail and leaned against the opposite wall of the corridor. Harry spread his hands. She switched to another finger. But a non-member Not just into the papers; into the cargo itself. Bea looked at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. She even took her fingers out of her mouth.

Bea chuckled. A real philanthropist, is our Harry. But this time he's gone too far. Why would you want to carry a dead body to a foreign planet?

Karima smiled and patted his hand. But I could tell he didn't believe in it any more than Karima did. My uncle was not happy with Karima's decision, but it didn't occur to him to oppose it. He understood. He didn't just accept Ghan beliefs the way David did, like he would have accepted Buddhism or Mohammedanism or any other -ism his wife happened to support. Uncle Narain knew.

He was a dancer. He carried the tribe's story-burden, danced the history of the tribe. He had to know stuff. For example, he knew that no one in his story-burden had ever survived running the sun. He also knew that the dream-substance of planets was too strong for the dead.

Nobody could withstand it for more than fifty, fifty-five days. Not even the Ghan knew what happened when you moved on. They just knew what happened when you didn't. You became one with the planet, and inevitably went mad in the process. And then you went on forever, or at least for as long as the planet did, in that diluted, mad state. That was why my mother wanted to run the sun for me. If she could reach me, she could help me move on. I should have had the courage to do it myself, but, hey, if I weren't a coward, I wouldn't be dead in the first place. If I had had the courage to face my parents instead of staging a drama.

No use crying over broken eggs, as my grandma would have said. They say that Earth mythologies have dead relatives wait for you when you die, to ease the transition. That's a neat arrangement, if it's true. If my grandma were there to meet me, I wouldn't have the courage to not move on. Perhaps she will indeed be there, but I won't know that until I make the fatal step.

And the possibility that there's simply nothing there is too scary to contemplate.


Harry the Slut put another drink in Bea's hand. They were sitting in the Marrakech, the ship's concession bar. Christian Chankari didn't drink and didn't approve of drinking, so he left them at the entrance. Without him and with the help of a few Jack Daniels, Harry was hoping he could persuade Bea not to report. He was also hoping he could get her to bed, but he was always hoping for that.

, Mikhaïlova-Makarius, Amour au miroir | The Medieval Review

It was almost a hobby. Bea smelled of engine oil and cheap soap. He could get drunk on that smell. Better to get drunk on Jack Daniels. Maybe because no one else was that desperate to bring someone back to life. After all, we only found them a few years ago. She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. He'll have to jerk off later.