siddharth  dhanvant  shanghvi


Shanghvi  Siddharth  Dhanvant

juhu - mumbai  25 agosto 1977


PAGINA    1  -  2




What does it mean to lose someone ?   To answer this timeless question, bestselling author Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi draws on a string of devastating personal losses of his mother, of his father and of a beloved pet to craft a moving memoir of death and grief .

With surgical detachment and subtle feeling, Shanghvi charts the landscape of bereavement as he takes the reader down the dark, winding path to healing .    Clear-eyed and intimate, Loss is the first Volume of non-fiction by one of India's most beloved writer of life experience  . - fb/sds 2020  -

do you believe people truly recover from the loss of a loved one?
Some recover, but mostly a skin comes over the cut .   Slowly you come to think of the deceased as present but without form, still flawed, memorable and irreplaceable - and with time, your recollection is not escorted by suffering .
sheree gomes gupta - - fb/sds 2020

Loneliness is a cave of bats that come out at you each evening, a great black musty whoosh that suggests abject isolation can be a form of purgatory.
loss - fb/sds 2020

... In a worst-case scenario, I might be dead today; in the best, I’d be dead later .   Even with a blanket of white flowers at my feet, I had been thinking about death .   I don’t mean this in either a wallowing or morbid way - as the end - but as an invitation to prepare myself :   to become death’s disciple .   What can I do to die better ?   Live urgently, of course, and mindfully, but also in a way that lays vigil to the conclusion .   The miracle of being alive is lost in the exhaustion of staying alive .   Now I know that I want to enter my death as if it were a garden of beautiful trees, or a bench I had sat on before the sea, or a train I had boarded to a destination of no known address except that it was home, some place where I might be finally myself .    I am writing this on Diwali, I am alone and unspeakably happy, with one family secret to share with you: everything is just right  .
... eight months alone in a village in the pandemic - - fb/sds 2020



is not a record of what have been lost but who have been loved

fb/sds - 27.8.2020





 roma 2008


I love novellas !

They’re seductive and profound

with  a genius of concision

that clarifies meaning and makes

beauty more irresistible

and truth invincible

On this trip to Rome
at the home of Jonathan Doria Pamphilj, I was walled in by works of Raphael, Caravaggio, Titian, Velazquez - over 650 art world legends in his “house” of a 1000 rooms. At one point, after a family dinner, the golden hue of the lamps sprayed over a painting in the salon. Something, wordlessly, shifted. “A real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the separation between himself and the artist,” wrote Tolstoy.

Thank you for your wisdom and grace, JDP. If any friends are passing through Rome swing by Palazzo Doria Pamphilj for an education in art, beauty and stillness.
“But what about Venice?”
Oh Junior, no, no, no
fb/ss - 9.5.2019

Sometimes  I wonder why people  friends -  lovers - allies – leave our lives

The answer is: They do because they do. But the more who leave the chambered heart, the more it is returned to its authentic silence, its original darkness. Every diya you light tonight is a remembrance that the person you have been waiting for to return is so deep in memory it not possible for them to leave  :    you are the sum total of all you have known together .    In the darkness of their departure, when you are entirely alone, the sort of alone comparable to old oaks and sentinels, know that everyday you wake up you are already in the best company  

Yourself .   Everything is just right.

Happy Diwali 2012  -  -

you have said    'I needed to write the books then to make the photographs now.'    why?
Perhaps because the photographs have angularity, economy.      The photographs worked for the force and stillness the books did not have.      In a sense the books were a kind of apprenticeship.     All things are about voice, about finding it and the books might have been a kind of throat-clearing for other songs.
sandip roy - - 2013
fb/sds - - 2013
Last year
in the spring
I couldn’t get out of bed for a month
post COVID
no appetite
no movement
no life
. - fb/sds 7.5.2023
to be truly adult is to be child-like
Has everything changed ?  the Squirrel asked the Rabbit

‘Yes’, he said after a moment.   ‘Yes, it has: It has become more itself.’
Alright then,’ she said, relieved. ‘I was afraid I’d lost ... ’ She wanted to say you, but what she really meant was that without him she’d lost the version of herself she had known most acutely.  ‘I was afraid I’d lost everything,’ she said, almost to herself.
They looked up at the Christmas moon.
She felt tiny, as if with every breath that she drew she vanished some more. But here, with the Rabbit by her side, she felt she was vanishing with someone. That’s it, she told herself, to vanish with a friend, to see the invisible with equal eyes, to know together the dark side of the moon.
‘I have so much to tell you,’ she said, ‘that only silence will suffice.’
Thank you,’ she said, for tonight she could lay down the erratic forces of her mood, her compulsions and desires - the awful doubt that she actually existed and that perhaps this was not the best of ideas. She gripped his hand, and the wild, spinning compass of her heart came to still.
A cloud went across the moon, but on passage revealed a sky of unwavering brightness.

xmas tale by sds in goa - fb/sds 2013
So it’s raining like bonkers and I’m a little sloshed and a little blue as some friends and I are headed to this totally divey pizza joint in Anjuna and I wanted to tell you I wrote a new book, a little fable, actually it was something I made a few years ago for someone, with love, for love, so here it is, The Rabbit & The Squirrel, illustrated by my beloved friend Stina Wirsen
fb/sds - 11.6.2018
I wrote The Rabbit and the Squirrel five years ago, as a gift of love for someone.   I never thought it would see the light of day – it’s publication is a sweet, divine accident   -sds   -  - 2018
A Love Story about Friendship  - A stunning picture book about love, friendship and sexuality, with a dash of absurdity.
Lit with longing, and tender questions of the heart, The Rabbit and the Squirrel is a fairy tale for the modern day by one of India's much-loved young authors. Illustrated by Stina Wirsén, this poignant and moving fable for all ages was originally conceived by the author as a private gift of love for a beloved friend. Featuring a bisexual bunny and an heiress squirrel, by turns witty and absurd, endearing and brave, this little book harbours a fine ache that lends it a timeless quality. - amazon - 2018
would you agree that the central premises of your books are love and friendship?
Yes, absolutely. It is strange to me that not enough writers take ownership of these themes in their work. Many writers want their books to be classified as ‘political fiction’ perhaps to pass muster as “serious”. Of course, it is crucial to write about war and oppression, caste and religion – these are important, valuable themes.
mallik thatipalli - - 2018
why animals?
Because they are infinitely more charming than people.
- If you are waiting, it is because you are deserving; If you are deserving, it is because you have waited -
shrestha saha interview - - 2018
Don’t date someone who doesn’t read: they won’t know how to pay attention to your quietness. -  interview - 2018

Hope is twinned with love, and being in love is a little like breathing great gulps of hope .   Drawing on this, and the simple art of noticing, the Tata Group’s Tata Cliq Luxury partnered with artists to respond to this dark hour’s greatest spiritual necessity: hope .   This campaign, Time To Heal, includes songs, spoken word and poetry by Lisa Ray, Kaliki Kochelin, Ankur Tewari and others .   Here’s my piece but tune in to Lisa, her work is better (I love her line there is ‘safety in softness’) .   And Ankur’s voice is like watching a migration of blue tiger butterflies ...
fb/sds - 27.5.2021  - 2021
. The Demoness danced
Everyone - thespians, aristocrats, moneylenders, heiresses - watched the Demoness dance. Outside the castle, the poor cried out from hunger. The tears of the poor were seeds.     Later, they sprout in the form of storms. Billowing fire from the sky, torrents of rain drowned the castle. Wild currents swept away the audience.

'Save us !' they cried to the Gods
The Gods asked : 'Did you not hear the poor weep ?'
'No !' they cried in unison, bejewelled hands extended out of the black water, begging rescue.   'No we did not hear the poor.'
The audience drowned.   The Gods did not hear them, either. After the storm, the Demoness resumed her dancing.
fb/sds - 2.7.2018

. Several years ago
when my mother was alive but ailing, I’d just returned from America, nursing something like a bruised heart.   One Sunday afternoon, I sat on my mother’s bed – years had passed since she’d been able to walk. My father came into the room and settled into a chair. Slowly, the air stilled with unsayable things: What we had been angry about; how we had, perhaps, or most certainly, failed each other; life, in some senses, had panned out into a shambolic disappointment. A dark cord seized my heart: panic, with veins of shared loss and unencountered joy. I went up to my room and returned to my mother’s bed with a bottle of champagne. I’d been saving this for when I’d finish my book (at the time, this was The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay). I poured glasses for the three of us. I’m not sure what we drank to but perhaps something like still being around, after everything - cuts, cleavings and all.
And that was the last time we drank together.
My mother passed away shortly after.
Stricken with cancer, my father was not allowed to drink again.

Looking back, I’m so glad I’d opened that bottle of champagne (a posh indulgence for a middle-class Gujurati boy). In retrospect, I see the occasion had been that we had been together. Years later, during this awful summer in Bombay, as my sisters and I battle something like a calamity, memory chased back to that idle afternoon, to drinking with my folks. The only joy we may permit ourselves is being alive to life’s caprice. The only truth is that love is enough. The only certainty is that all that feels insurmountable will end, or that we shall for it. Just look good through all of it: misfortune spites nothing more than if you had your movie star face on at all times.

fb/sds - 2015
Mother's Day
I was recalling Padmini, so much, her radiant, brave heart, I was thinking: what would she have done today if she had been alive?

Why she'd have had a feast for her loved ones.
AAnd so we did, too. I have been drinking non stop for 36 hours btw .
fb/sds - 14.5.2017
When I was an year old infant
my grandmother and my father had brought me to Nathdwara
,   to our family shrine of Shreenathji. Born after the tragic death of my brother, I was something of an answered prayer for my parents. Over the years I've come often, taking the long, dirty narrow road up to the temple, unchanged black cobblestone, the violet daybreak sky of Rajasthan, a tender, smoky air. I wanted to go with my father one more time, recognising that his health might restrict travel to crowded places. Ensconced against each other in the maddening throng, my head pressed into his back as I peered sideways to see clearly the great black idol, it's gleaming eyes, whimsical mein. We might not ever have been closer by design but there we were then, two pilgrim sardines. Later, I wiped his feet; I experienced the accumulated dirt as if diamonds.
From when he had brought me here as an infant ... to this morning when I came with him, as touches his eightieth year soon, I thought it has been this much time, time, nothing but difficult, unceasing, fine time. These cycles of holding, and being held, are unbroken, in spite of disquiet and disagreement, perhaps stronger because of them, they are inevitable as season, tide, love.
Jai Shree Krishna.

fb/sds - 2015
A few weeks ago, at a friend’s home in Rome
I was met with a picture of my dad. I had shot it in 2009, a year after my mother’s passing. My father was in his seventies; he had lived through cancer. I always imagined that the photograph of a man dining alone was a portrait of loneliness.

But as I stood before the image installed in a still, bare room with ancient frescos, I felt I had been wrong. My father was not lonely: he was, in fact, deeply content. I felt lucky to see his portrait in such a magnificent palazzo on via Della Pace. I felt that some part of his soul was still in the photograph, and that maybe he was about to turn around and see me, the photographer, and his son, and then he would smile as he always did, with heart halting tenderness.
He was happy to have been there; he was happy to be here.
fb/sds - 19.6.2022
Everything is a gift
The breath you draw.   The time someone you handed your heart didn't entirely break it. The goodness of people who write letters. The snuggle of a dog, the moving stillness of koi in a pond. The older I grow the more grateful I am for everything that comes my way, days when it didn't vividly hurt to remember someone I lost, nights when I was deliriously happy to be home alone, afternoons on the beach. Mostly, I remember the unforced and dear kindness of my parents, I still eat in my mother's old bartan, and what is on the table is food my father taught me how to earn. I am here. I will have another meal. I will go to bed. But there is still time for that. For now there is only the recognition that love illuminates everything.

fb/sds - 25.8.2015

Around 10 years ago

I shot my first magazine cover, in France, for Epok (the styling team was hugely disappointed: the cover before mine had graced Bono). Recently, I came across an old copy of Epok and later that day I had to vet through shots for something I did last month. Among all the verities between then and now, one is grossly undeniable.  I'VE AGED !  GET ME THE HELL OUTTA HERE !
fb/sds - 20.9.2015

A world he had left behind :
South Bombay parties he arrived at with swirling dread in his stomach and fled in secret, after midnight, swerving past Babulnath, fretting the hostess would notice (she never did but one had loved him outside of measure); the lovers, voluptuous, off-the-grid beings who spurred in him secret language, for them he wrote with daring, magic tricks and pleasure. This was a world to which friends paid subscription, structures they believed might work, marriage, conventions of conduct. They could not comprehend why he was always gone but they feared to wake one morning and see that they had done the wrong thing, they had been with the wrong man, or that they had not stashed enough to leave abruptly in a cranky red car one Thursday afternoon, to simply quit: richness was setting aside enough for the wide arms of failure.

We fall in love for the same reason we read. For our broken, disjointed selves to be held by our solitude, or by the attention of another, this is not in the belief that we may be accepted as much that our private distaste for who we are is temporarily in abeyance. We are alright. A book says this to us. So does love. We are many people, many selves, but language, or your touch, holds me as one tonight.
fb/sds - 23.11.2016

Few landscapes make me feel
as clearly as the Swedish one does, of the solitude of things. The countryside is dense copse, blue berries and truffle, great, lofty branches wind whipped, rain slathered. When I wrote about one of my favourite countries, Sweden, for the Hindustan Times Brunch, under the excellent editorship of Jamal Shaikh, I was lucky to extol its lures – design, food, art and my great friends here.

But I return, every year, for a walk through the woods.
fb/sds - - 2017

When people ask me what I do, I struggle to answer
The stock response is,   'I’m a writer.'   Or, now, I say I help out with an arts foundation in Goa — I kind of curate shows. I also make homes — design narratives in form. Yet, none of this feels entirely true. It feels a little like dressing up for the job, it feels like make-up, it feels like I’m angling for the ticket of an employable person with a semi-important public designation. To be honest, most days I’m on the beach. Or I’m travelling. I’ve never held a desk job. Even as I read this, I’m scared: for I can see my future — I’ll be selling pressure cookers on a home shopping network and date night is only ever going to be with my cat.

Yep, folks, my future is really not very bright. But my present is semi-excellent.
This is because a few years ago I consciously decided to live in delight of the ordinary, and in exhilaration of less.
... There was nothing.
Slowly, I have grown aware, and come to prize that this nothing as everything, and that the rooms often look most beautiful when they are empty.
And that the real work I have been trying to do all along is to come home to myself.
sds/ - 2018

House of Solitude
Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi on the house where he wrote his bestselling novel, The Last Song of Dusk.
In 2002, I returned from California to Bombay. A love affair had bombed. I was to start on a master’s degree in San Francisco the following year - a scholarship had been secured. Interim, I had a year to kill. My father, the practical Gujurati, insisted I get a job – perhaps as a reporter. My mother said, ‘You don’t need to leave the house. Why don’t you start a pizza parlor in the garage?’ Around that time Hrithik Roshan, who grew up in the same neighborhood, went from totally awkward badminton playing teenager I’d seen him at Juhu Gymkhana, and transformed into a world-class nipple-flashing film star. One of my school contemporaries, whose kindergarten achievement had been target urinating in Limca bottles, distinguished himself not only by marrying but also begetting a child the same year.
Folks in my neighborhood were flashing the absence of chest hairs, and the presence of heirs.
Meanwhile, I was nursing a broken heart and quarreling with my mother – no, I did not want her mami’s recipe for pizza sauce; and yes, this made me a bloody ingratiate. I retreated to my room in the house, the photographs of which grace this magazine. I rescued from my temperamental desk top computer (it only started after I folded my hands and recited the Gayatri Mantra) a manuscript I’d finished two years prior. My novel was a love story of sorts, a marriage under threat, a young woman whipping into her sexual and artistic own, the shadow of music on their lives – these were key strands. I wrote all day, then deep into night; I edited like the demon was in me; I revised everything. I had charts. There were diary entries I revisited. I tried not to think of lost love. I was young. There will be others, I told myself in my terrace, where I gazed at the pond at the rear of my house. In a few months, I brought into being the story that later brought me into writerly existence: The Last Song of Dusk was completed in this house. From the fate of the house, from its invisible veins and ventricles, its secret cloacal, a book came to be.
The house gave my parents and my siblings distance from each other while allowing us to be close. The extravagance of a home in Bombay – this accidental good luck has never been never lost on me – is how the five of us persisted doggedly as individuals, with our private failings of mood, cranks of personality. My parents had their rooms; I shared a room with my siblings until I was twelve, following which I lived in a small room that was originally a storeroom - yes, I had limited equity in the family. As I was obsessed with rescuing animals, the storeroom turned bedroom is where I put up with a menagerie of rescue kittens, abandoned puppies, a baby goat one summer, and for several years, a rooster, George, who presided on my desk and crowed stridently several times in the middle of the night (as a result my heart is now aneurism proof). The month George died I turned fifteen, and I lost my only two teenage friends when my mother looked them square in the eye and asked them to be ‘extra nice’ to me because, well, my cock had just died. They had been seated on the crescent shaped sofa you see in the pictures.
While I cohabited with farm animals, my grandfather had a small flat to himself – he had built this extension for the winter months when he returned from America, where he lived. As a scholar and an analyst – he had studied with CG Jung - he read extensively and deeply, and he wrote in his studio. His bedroom has the circular art deco mirror although the walls were stripped to a rough cement peel only recently. He met with his students who had come from Varanasi, from Chicago; he analyzed the dreams of his grandchildren; he bought me a microscope from a jumble sale in North Bombay Housing Society when I told him ‘I wanted to learn how to see properly.’ My mother, who in her later years was disabled, was confined to her room – here she had installed a movable stove over which she flamed to life recipes for gatte ka saag that she had learned as a young woman in Rajasthan. Some evenings, deliciously feet halting scents would emerge from her bedroom – she was conjuring up a curry from her portable kitchen. And this room, which was her bedroom, became many things, a haven for midnight conversation, a quarrel resolution unit, a kitchen where appetites (and hearts) were fed – a moveable feast, indeed. There is no photograph of my mother’s room but I know you can see it clearly.
Principal in the permutations of how we inhabited this house was our commitment to solitude. We were always learning to be alone, then more alone, because this house made room for it. In this alone we sulked, we repaired, we took the pieces of our broken selves and darned them into a kind of fine and crazy whole. Imagine this house – which in these pictures appears so decorous and calm – and see if for it is: a lab for the human spirit. Imagine it as a dollhouse, the roof now open, and you are looking in, at a gangly, self-conscious boy rooming with a rooster; an analyst, on his chair, speaking with his students, matching their trepidation with consolation; imagine, now, my mother, cooking from her room, in her bed, defying restrictions of health and emerging triumphant, full of poetry. Oh yes, she wrote a book of poems, which we launched in this house, and one evening she read her poems to all her friends.
This is a house of solitude, but equally a house of language, of the meaning of language, and of how language resigns to silence.
In Toni Morrison’s novel, Beloved, the house has such animating resentment that floorboards quake and characters are pummeled into walls. Miss Havisham waits for a lover in Great Expectations, and Dickens infuses her grief into the crumbling walls of her villa. The mansion in The Great Gatsby becomes a symbol of romantic failure for the novel’s central character, underscoring his remove from the world (later to reflect the writer Fitzgerald’s own isolation). ‘If you are unhappy, or vulnerable, or hurt, or lost,’ wrote Jeanette Winterson, ‘it is still possible to live in or to create a happy home. This isn't sleight of hand, it is magic at its most sympathetic.’ While homes in literature are sometimes devices to express rage or longing, the actual practice of making home can be one of alchemy, Winterson suggests – ‘alchemy that shifts one thing into another.’
My family house, too, has shifted in meaning and form. My parents are gone. My siblings are long married. I, now, live here alone. This is nothing more than the alchemy of time. The beautiful room is empty, a line from one of Kafka’s letters, is the title of a book by Edmund White. White also wrote The Farewell Symphony, named after a piece by Joseph Hayden, wherein the musicians, one at a time, abandon the stage until only one player is left on stage.
The last musician will also leave.
Silence will be president.
But perhaps there is time for that.
When I wake at night, and descend this majestic, lonesome stairwell, I hear only music, my mother’s sonorous dawn hour bhajans, my dad’s boyish claps of laughter, my grandfather reading out a passage from the Tripura Rahasya. I see the areca palm leaves alive to their own mystery; I see all the people who have sat on our chairs. ‘The present flowed by them like a stream,’ wrote EM Forster in Howard’s End. ‘The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.’
The beautiful room can never be empty.
Ronitaa Italia Dhanu invited me to write an essay on home ...  fb/sds - 1.3.2018

An indicator of how brilliantly my life has flopped is measured by my tremendous pleasure in wholesale flowers from Mapusa Market .
fb/sds - 31.5.2018

Growing up
I had a bunch of snobby cousins who asked me:   Are you wearing clothes made from old curtains ?   Turns out, they were right .   White trousers made from sofa fabric leftover (thanks to tailor Soni-ji of Udaipur) .    I’m so lucky my mother raised me solidly middle class.

fb/sds - 3.9.2018

We are all pilgrims
Perhaps one possible response today is prayer: prayer, for the victorious, that they carry the dispossessed and the unsheltered on the wings of their golden triumph; that the victorious honor how the true burden of victory is resident in service and justice; that the dizzy valour of victory seduces them to set aside old battles, old arguments, old ways of thinking and being, and in the shrill joy and sudden felicity of victory they build bridges with bricks of reconciliation, truth and beauty, compassion, oh my lord, compassion, compassion, compassion.
And a prayer for those who have lost: their purpose, their faith, their hope, their direction, their stamina - a prayer for their hewn, bewildered spirit, a prayer for their baffled hope: that they might renew their conviction and find brilliant, tender, avant-garde ways to consider what they must fight for, how, and why.
Into despair they must pour prayer, from its whey emerges something renegade, marvellous and invincible (such as a new beginning). A teardrop light turns into a flaring torch, borne in each lanced heart, held between palms, a secret flame which, when stroked by industry, repose and cunning, becomes invincible and transformative; secret light is still light.
Not all prayers are answered but all prayers are heard. And perhaps that much is enough tonight for all of us - for those who have won, and for those who have lost. For both are only pilgrims. For all are only suffering.
Sleep well, wandering bird, your roost is prayer.
fb/sds - 24.5.2019

... I accepted
the gracious Aindrila’s invitation to visit Sri Lanka so I could say this with conviction: Sri Lanka is safe. In fact, it is more magnificent than before, and that there has never been a better time to fall in love with this sublime land, an opera of time and fate, a trompe-l'œil of sun and coral. Please visit!

Suggested reading: Running in The Family.    Music: jazz, of course.    Food: take truffle chips.    Wear linen kurtas.    Go with a lover.     Watch whales.     I have.     And I returned transformed.
fb/sds - 8.8.2019

This republic is a republic of people, it is our republic, our nation, our country, our land, reclaim it, own it, embrace it, serve it, resist, reimagine :   a call to arms starts with intention, action and prayer .
fb/sds - 26.1.2020 -

I wrote this to a friend today, maybe it will mean something for you, too . . .
This is what it means to be transformed :  it means that first you have to break .  And this is what we all are right now, broken, in different degrees, maybe we always were, but now we get to pay attention to the pieces, to the origins of damage, to the route to possible recovery .  The thing about entering an extraordinary time is that you can never leave it as an ordinary person .
Even when the world goes back to being itself - tiring and dirty, annoying and greedy - this is what we must remember: we had been offered an extraordinary spell of shared time to change our lives .
Every day, in a small rural village, I wake up alone to birdsong - drongo, coucal, mynah, peacock .  What did I do to merit entrance into this music? Every second, I see, is holy, profound and grave, every note is in balance .  I cannot believe that it had always been like this, and that I had paid this magic no mind. I must change that, among other things .
fb/sds - 18.4.2020

fb/sds - 18.10.2021 - dettaglio da foto di leonardo pucci
I am sorry
I bring no words of comfort .
I am exhausted by my mind’s appetite
for so large a slice of sorrow .
One punishment for the well
is wondering when they will be sick .
The best hours of our life have gone away
( The best hours of our life are yet to come ? )
And as for the sick ?
As for the sick
I hold you in prayers, in webs of love .
I am frightened by your pain – or I am awed by it .
Suffering has made you solemn and tender
Even in death :   undefeated by defeat .
I want you to know: You are my hero
My savant of suffering, my lodestar, my compass .
I heard your cry .    I heard you cry .
I want to tell you that this will end  -
And again you will stand tall and true
Wild flowers in one hand
A smile as bright and big as summer

fb/sds  - 25.4.2021
Yes, it is all an illusion
but if you hold my hand and walk into it then together
we will make it something real, a place of love

fb/sds - 9.6.2019


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