pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our saturday shift đŠ

seen from Ukraine
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seen from United States

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seen from United States
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seen from Netherlands
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seen from United States
seen from United States
pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our saturday shift đŠ

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do anyone wanna look at me draw sketchbook live (traditional) bc im seriously panicking
starting in 20 past whatever ur hour is
If I am reading this right, it still appears they were in exile already. There was no invite no duty they were heading back to in England. So, they just basically show up with little warning to thank Canada for their vacation but had plans to continue living there? They were running low on funds and wanted to make threats to get a boost from Chuckie's wallet? In a way it wouldn't surprise me now if Harry doesn't join her. I do think he is bi and has a bf in Canada he is being prevented from.
This is my theory for the hour đ° theyâve been wanting out cuz she thinks they can be uber wealthy by moving away...no one to say No...and cashing in on the Royal name and Iâd bet my puppy, thatâs how sure I am, that they promised people they will be knighted or damed in exchange for đ° đ°đ°and projects.
The Christmas address happened and their picture was no where in sight* so they knew they were going to be dumped, new slimmed down Monarchy coming, so...
Panic at the SOHO
They go into overdrive to push their devious plan ahead of them being told theyâre getting cut out of most things, see below
They come back, their brilliant đ minds leak their demands and think they will cover their asses by having Canada fawn all over them but instead they are wondering why she doesnât wear antiperspirant, anyways...backfire backfire backfire, their plans đŁ, đŠ hits the fan and instead of them returning to Canada with a marching band and red carpet on the tarmac she has to skulk back there alone in the middle of the night ,with everything she could fit in her free suitcases from the baby shower,and dimwit is left behind wondering why it takes her so long to go buy milk at the corner shop.
Bonus gif, no red carpet
* I think no photo on the Queenâs desk was what set them off as opposed to 4 monarchs pic, jmo
Bo Burnham âThis Hourâ
could it have been otherwise? and what would count as a good answer to this?
â'the sense of fate' is such a powerful and complex emotion;

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This hour
Trust me
Iâm not hiding anything
Iâll lay everything bare
How can you find something that isnât there?
This hour, while a child sleeps, before he wakes and those arcadian hours we make togetherâ is it a continued arch, vaulted, open at both ends, is it a bending?ârecommence. Yes, a bending. Light before youâd call it light bluing the sky. The old city below, a fidget toyâs string of buildings; doves calling and answering from ledges in the cavities; a low branching into divisions of memory; a hot afternoonâs lunch on the grounds of the museum, children at play in tethered circles; traffic and voices from the avenues carrying along the bright cold mornings on the lawns of big houses near the hotel; those who saw me home, whoever they were (though I know who they are), I also saw them home. I rode in their cars. I rode with the mother of the boy who lost all his words, she gave us a ride, the boys with their large eyes, sitting up high beside each other and smiling; the empty avenues of asphalt from the station to the new hospital to the corner we rounded and, past the galvanized fence, a school; the city narrows there; there is the river, suddenly; and then a spread of houses like a cowl on the head of the island; a journey whose meaning was as yet unknown though I know it sometimes; sheep on a patch of land at the convergence of two superhighways; no silence in the train; harvesters in orange and red slickers among the lettuces; swifts overhead; apricots flecked with rose; lichen spreading on corrugated iron; short-wave voices of those who are gone now remembered in the intonation of throwaway phrases; it should not follow but it follows; and are their fathers here; one of them is, white stubble where his razor didnât pass that calls up his morning, the temperature of his cheek, and how luck befriended us then, and at this hour, which rests on a childâs sleeping.
Saskia Hamilton, âThis Hourâ