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While retrieving my New York Times I noticed that it was September 12, 1962.
When walking hope is a swagger
When sleeping hope is a lullaby
When breathing hope is oxygen
When drunk hope. . .
Animals don’t have it so good. It’s no secret. One thing’s clothes: you won’t see a goat browsing in Petites on Saturday. . .
The actor is powerless, caught in a net of deceit. Here we are again: predestination and grace.
There are a lot of things you can do to fight ICE that would be less likely to expose you or your loved ones to surveillance.
The left’s most persistent—and giddiest—Melania fantasy: that she’s secretly one of us, can’t stand Trump either, and will go rogue one glorious day.