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 I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
      Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them...
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awesome hair.

 

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I was probably one of her biggest fans and I was crossing my fingers for a great comeback. When I found out about Amy’s death for the first time, my heart sank and a pit formed in my stomach as if I knew her personally.

I realized the other day, I felt this way because she was one of the the few artists who literally poured her soul into her work. When you heard one of her songs, you felt her. I just hope the next generation of artists are inspired to do the same. May she rest in peace.

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The writer is a spiritual anarchist, as in the depth of his soul every man is. He is discontented with everything and everybody. The writer is everybody’s best friend and only true enemy — the good and great enemy. He neither walks with the multitude nor cheers with them. The writer who is a writer is a rebel who never stops. – William Saroyan