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If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
I am like the sick sheep that strays from the rest of the flock. Unless the Good Shepherd takes me on His shoulders and carries me back to His fold, my steps will falter, and in the very effort of rising, my feet will give way.
Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
If a line of poetry strays into my memory my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
Experience has taught me when I am shaving of a morning to keep watch over my thoughts because if a line of poetry strays into my memory my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
I grew up in Rome, in actually what I would say was a liberal, open-minded family. My father was an architect and my mother was a teacher of art history, so it was sort of intellectual, and maybe a bit much for me when I was a child.
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