we make milkshakes

A thousand blackberry iphone buzzes gather like a hailstorm while celebratory chimes ring incessantly in my hospitalized ears. For three days I bend and shake inside tent tie-backed clothes to break wicked fever spells on a mechanical moving mattress. In a dream in the early dawn hours, von-Scholtz is holding my newborn daughter up to his face, so proud for her to be born. He kisses her lips and closes his eyes. I see that she has fairest hair and blue eyes. He adores her. This only makes me think I need to invest at least of half of my time to translating her new nuances.

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