He couldn’t walk like us. He never caught a ball and laughed with joy. All that remains in him is silent reproach of hunger and and a pair of blanked eyes. But none of the world even notices.
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6 years ago
All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up.
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