tattoos and russian priests

I am sitting in Veronica's coffeehouse facing a mirror. my pages are spread across the table, and Adelle is skipping in the background. through the mirror I can see a good portion of the room and a window and through that window, in the mirror, there is a russian orthodox priest across the street sweeping his sidewalk. This, in a way that very few things can, reminds me of the feeling one gets when going home.
Subsequently, nettles on the back on the neck can stimulate the brain.

last month, I saw the same Russian father talking transubstantiation with some tourists.
Yesterday afternoon, the three guys with whom i've been camped drove off. Nostalgically, I picked the wildflower that circumscribe the library parkinglot and tossed them at the windshield as they turned the key. Picked more and tossed them as they jumpstarted the car. Got bored and went to get coffee. I forget the last words, but it doesnt matter.

A week ago, these two decided they wanted a tattoo. days ago they decided not to pay to get it done, and in the moment they decided it hurt so i should be the one to wield the sewing needle. It was raining outside the tent so my free hand held a flashlight as idipped and stabbed and swabbed.

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