Among that winter, sunmade shadows haunted the steps in St. Paul de Vence. Silence crumbled like children's kites in the wind, and I was caught by the sound. The brown ramparts were goatherds to walks I took, belled by women washing morning in the fountain, and each day guided me down to the weedy cemetery where white marble teeth stood in the ground. I held parties among so much company.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com