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fyn gula
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when he was little, he stood in the kitchen, small even for a child, bumping inot tables, stood waiting for the shuffle of his ukrainian grandfather to open the cupboard doors and dip his shaky hand into the china cup. there were quarters inside of it, you see, and this was their pas de deux. from cup to hand, the music of sighs, the patience of saints. and he liked to hear them jingle in his pocket. he paused as the warmth of his hand radiated against the coins, waiting for that look from him, that realm of the senses somehow complete.
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010330
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