Vladimir Nabokov My friend, I`m really just sorry... My friend, I'm really just sorry about who, in secret blindness, passing all length of the green alley, just can not notice on leaves the striking network of the streaks and points of the tubercles or even the serrated tracks from saws of the blue-horned slugs.
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εεθ«ζιηΌθ‘£, εεζεε°εΉ΄ζΆ。 θ±εΌε ͺζη΄ι‘»ζ, θ«εΎ ζ θ±η©Ίζζ。 Covet not a gold-threaded robe, Cherish only your young days! If a bud blooms, gather it, Lest you but...
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