rows of clay waiting for oil. they all look equal. it’s the flame that makes each one particular.
a lamp lit from another lamp loses nothing. remember that when you’re asked for a little of your light.
anith
to me, at the turning of the year
rows of clay waiting for oil. they all look equal. it’s the flame that makes each one particular.
a lamp lit from another lamp loses nothing. remember that when you’re asked for a little of your light.
anith
to me, at the turning of the year