clothes swap
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clothes swap

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This is an screen with additional notes that are projected by the overseer
TG has a habit to read pearls in strange way. Also he can "eat", but he can not digest food.
TBA is caring for him.
True Grace
It is a minute after midnight on a Friday;
mere evening for many - too much
still to do before the street lights turn off
in favour of the sunrise.
I am wrapped in my jacket
trying to keep out the cold or hold in
the warmth - so often I forget
what I'm aiming for - and I step off the train,
bleary eyed from a half hour of semi sleep.
Waverley is almost empty.
Footsteps echo off the high walls
and mine thud into the floor as I blindly walk
to the cash machine.
And I turn to exit twice before stopping
to see the piano, sitting in the centre of the hall,
keys naked and cold, inviting the pressure
of my fingers.
And I heave a sigh that looks more like smoke
than breath, pull up the stool and play
for the silence, play of the summer,
the afternoon
that has long since passed us by.
As I play, I think of a woman from the train,
a year older than I, and struggling;
Dear God, if I do not know struggle, then I
know nothing - I listened whilst she sobbed,
said she had nothing left to live for, feels
like no one will love her because she's fucked up - and she sees me watching her,
listening, and is fit only to apologise.
I say, "Darling, don't say sorry - you've done
nothing wrong."
And we talk; she, her friend and I - I
tell her that the hard part is done;
that recognising the problem is sometimes harder
than finding a solution; that she is more
than what her past or present dictates: I tell her
that she will be okay,
that time is the best drug for healing -
and yes, it's shit that it doesn't ever work fast enough -
but the first dose
is the hardest to swallow.
And as she stood to alight the train, I rose too,
hugged her, told her I've been there
and gotten out.
She cracked a tear stained smile, told me,
"Thank you", and I swear I've never seen true grace
until that moment...
And the last notes of summer fade from the empty hall,
and my cold fingers rise from the piano,
and I drag myself up from the stool to the sound
of a single pair of hands,
clapping.
There is a man sitting, huddled into his coat,
holding Burger King in a bag and smiling.
He asks me where I learned to play; I say
I taught myself. He asks what the song is
and I tell him,
"It's called 'Comptine D'un Autre Été L'après Midi."
He says it was beautiful and I cannot tell
if the warmth in my cheeks is from the cold
ripping at my skin,
or the blush creeping up my face.
And I say thank you, wish him a pleasant evening, and head
for the taxi rank outside, and I swear
I can hear him humming of the summer
whilst he finishes his chips alone,
with the echo of a song
only company.
Join True Grace book club for a lively discussion of this month's book!
Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo
Wednesday • June 14 • 6pm
In the shadow of Mumbai's sparkling new airport and luxury hotels sits Annawadi—a squalid and overcrowd migrant settlement on top of tons of garbage next to a vast pool of sewage. As India starts to prosper, the residents are electric with hope. Abdul, an enterprising teenager, sees a fortune in the recyclable garbage that richer people throw away. Meanwhile Asha, a woman of formidable ambition, has identified a shadier route to the middle class. With a little luck, her beautiful daughter, Annawadi's "most-everything girl," might become its first female college graduate. Even the poorest children, like the young thief Kalu, feel themselves inching closer to their dreams. But then Abdul is falsely accused in a shocking tragedy; terror and global recession rock the city; and suppressed tensions over religion, caste, sex, power, and economic envy turn brutal.
With intelligence, humor, and deep insight from her years among the slum's residents, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Katherine Boo creates an intimate and unforgettable portrait of India's urban poor during era of tumultuous change in this National Book Award-winning debut.
I have a different idea of elegance. I don't dress like a fop, it's true, but my moral grooming is impeccable. I never appear in public with a soiled conscience, a tarnished honor, threadbare scruples, or an insult that I haven't washed away. I'm always immaculately clean, adorned with independence and frankness. I may not cut a stylish figure, but I hold my soul erect. I wear my deeds as ribbons, my wit is sharper than the finest mustache, and when I walk among men I make truths ring like spurs.
Cyrano De Bergerac

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Thanks to people who remember about my OCs. I got some motivation to draw them ☺️