She always thought, Angels were made in Heaven.
Just more proof for a francophile,there is a little bit of Heaven in Provence.What are they made of, the angels?Were these Deva's lying dormant, waitingfor their creator to reach a spiritual consciousness?Are these the hands that sculpt the paper, void of words,into emotion?
At the core is fragility, yet strength
It is disturbing for her to think
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