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Poetry is the inner life of a culture, its nervous system, its deepest way of imagining the world. A culture that ignores its poets, chokes off its nervous system and becomes mortally ill.
— Erica Jong
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Nic's going to be an old maid," Michael said, giggling. "What?" she snapped. "How do you even know what that means? You're like, four years old." "Mommy said it," Michael answered. Bernie coughed, nearly choking on her food as Peter and Xavier laughed into their napkins.
— Alexandra Adornetto
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