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186 المنشورات
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0 الصور
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0 الفيديوهات
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Male
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02/01/1964
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متابَع بواسطة 0 أشخاص
التحديثات الأخيرة
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The Concrete BetrayalNew York in 1977 was a city on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The air was a cocktail of exhaust fumes and burning trash, and the sirens of the NYPD provided the soundtrack to a permanent state of emergency. Frank was a man who knew the city's underbelly because he had helped build it. A former cop who had seen too many envelopes change hands, he now worked as a mercenary for the Union—a...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 1 مشاهدة 0 معاينةالرجاء تسجيل الدخول , للأعجاب والمشاركة والتعليق على هذا!
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V-07: The Secret of Blackwood Manor (Southern Gothic)T8-01: M₁+M₆. Georgia, 1932. Blackwood Manor is a skeletal remains of a plantation, draped in Spanish moss and secrets. Cora is the mistress of the house, a woman whose skin is as pale as the lilies in the graveyard. Her sister-in-law, Maybelle, is a small-town girl with a laugh like a summer stream, set to marry a lawyer from Atlanta. Cora believes the Blackwood bloodline is sacred and that...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Porcelain ParadoxIn the high-gloss circles of Manhattan, image was the only currency that mattered. Sofia was the crown jewel of the social scene—a woman whose symmetry was so perfect it felt architectural. Her marriage to the son of the Van der Bilt-esque Sterling family was seen as the ultimate merger of beauty and power. The Sterlings, however, were practitioners of a subtle, psychological warfare. They...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Dream of TomorrowThe champagne flute slipped from Tommy O'Brien's fingers and shattered on the floor of the Plaza Ballroom, but he didn't hear it over the jazz band playing "Alexander's Ragtime Band." At twenty-five, Thomas "Tommy" O'Brien had already made and lost more money on Wall Street than most men saw in a lifetime. He had also seen the trenches of the Somme, and both experiences had taught him the same...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 12 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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THE WEIGHT OF NOTHINGI Raymond Kowalski woke at 5:30 every morning. He dressed in the dark—dark trousers, dark shirt, the same jacket he had worn for five years. He ate toast with margarine. He drank coffee that was too weak because he had stretched the grounds with extra hot water. He walked out the front door at 5:45. The factory was two miles away. It took him twenty minutes to walk. He walked at the same pace...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 16 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Patient from BelowACT I Dr. Henry Blackwood's clinic was on Harley Street, in a building that had been a townhouse before someone with money and no taste turned it into a medical practice. The waiting room smelled of carbolic acid and lavender—two smells that had been mixed together by someone who thought they complemented each other but in fact created an odor that was worse than either alone. Blackwood sat in...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 12 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Apartment on Elm StreetThe rain started at nine. Betty knew this because she had looked out the window at nine-oh-three and seen it begin, thin and hesitant, like something that was not sure it wanted to commit. By nine-thirty it was solid. By ten it had that particular October quality that Betty had come to recognize over sixty-three years of living in Youngstown: not the dramatic rain of movies, but the tired rain...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 16 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Concrete JokeIn the heart of Soho, where the galleries are white and the egos are larger than the buildings, Mark lived a life of curated virtue. He was a "Conceptualist," a man who believed that the most important part of art was the intention behind it. He spent his days attending openings and his nights reading Kierkegaard, convinced that he was the only authentic person in a city of simulations. His...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 15 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Void of CompanionshipSam lived in a city where the noise was a constant, aggressive tide, but his apartment was an island of absolute silence. It was a small, white cube in a nondescript building, stripped of all ornament. He owned four chairs, one table, and a bed. He lived a life of subtraction, believing that the fewer things he possessed, the more room there was for the essence of existence. But Sam was not...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 13 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Weaver's WitnessThe looms of the Lancashire mills were monsters of iron and steam, their rhythmic thumping a heartbeat that drowned out the cries of the children who crawled beneath them. I have spent forty years in the shadow of those machines, and I have seen many things break. But nothing broke as completely as Clara. She arrived on a Tuesday, a small, shivering thing wrapped in a blanket that smelled of...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 16 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Aesthetes' ReturnThe Aesthetes' Return I. Julian Ashworth dreamed of color dying. It was not a metaphor. In the dream, he stood in a gallery—white walls, parquet floor, gaslight dimmed to amber—and before him hung a painting he recognized as his own. A landscape of the Sussex downs, painted that summer, bright with green and gold and the blue of a sky he had studied for weeks to get right. But in the dream, the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 19 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Last Summer of Children's IslandHer brother's voice drifted up from the kitchen below, where the children of Children's Island had assembled themselves for dinner on a Tuesday in August, 1888. Thirty-seven of them, ranging from eight to fourteen years of age, sitting at tables made from upturned crates and doors. Eleanor was thirteen and had been in charge for eleven days. She was very good at being in charge. Her father had...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 18 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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