Thomas Mann is such a precise cropper. He draws out all the weird sections of music that is jokingly reconciled with scattered sleep and stretched to thin and weak. Any pattern is dazzling and humorous. I just want to go over and shoot again.
Although a madman has a very unfavorable opinion of a certain epigram...The
musicians were corrupted during the period of his pale coat, and his face was scattered and the sky was gorgeous; the black was cut and the white was cut, and there was nothing ugly.
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