I have spent the last two decades making clothes, accessories, dishes, and beds for humans and pets.
And sometimes what used to happen was what is happening now: Georges Gerfaut is driving on Pariss outer ring road. He has entered at the Porte dIvry.
Guy Fawkes Day, a good starting point for the journal of an anarchist. A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy, Fawkes said.
It is seven oclock. Night is falling. Sometimes there is between us, when I telephone you on the other side of the world, the echo of our voices on the satellite.
The trail started with a penny, round and burnished, hot from sitting so long in the summer sun. Angela scooped it up and held it in her palm so tightly the copper nearly burnt her skin.