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The Sabbath by Alexander Heschel
a god who can be fashioned, a god who can be confined, is but a shadow of man.
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i feel sick. it's just emotions,
but they squeeze all throughout my body. it kind of makes me confront the idea that maybe the old poetic image of drowning in a wave of emotion isn't so cheap. my stomach's bloated with tears i haven't cried and more i don't want to shed.
You can go back to the beginning.