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February 28, 2013
"Some sort of machine wheezes and sighs....
Every voice is a murmur like a pew near a confessional. The son wonders if there's any noise of life in this place. No tinkle of a fork on a plate. No hammering of seconds on a clock. Music has never entered the building, and never will." Sippican Cottage: Winter Dreams The Same Dream Every TimePosted by gerardvanderleun at February 28, 2013 12:22 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.
Your Say
I love Sipp.
Posted by: Daphne at February 28, 2013 5:39 PM
Me too.
Posted by: Leslie at February 28, 2013 6:58 PM