We thought perhaps you might know. Phil and I send our love. Sighing, A harsh, prolonged, exhausted breath, John feels his heart revisit death. Depleted by his pain, he slowly Walks to Jan's desk. In life has now possessed him wholly.
Nothing can mitigate the past.
He gently touches Jan's sand dollar. You're not alone. It isn't me you are obeying. Pay what are your own heart's arrears. The Golden Gate is a novel in verse written in imitation of the tetrameter sonnets of Pushkin's masterpiece Eugene Onegin.