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We brought flowers for our dead lovers
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Staring at her horribly disfigured face, I envied her.
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On an overcast and humid day in August, Jesus—with Dad’s permission, of course—decided to make his grand return.
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Two giant greasy hands were working those breasts hard, squeezing and tugging and pulling. She didn't holler.
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Grady Quail wondered why God didn't just have another son
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