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. . . An empty street. An unfamiliar shack. A tightly shut gate. And hanging over the gate, over the dead street, over us all—a Cossack cap with a raspberry-colored band. A trail of smoke from an…
Ay, a lifetime buzzed away . . . what is it, all in all? A dream, a short Friday in winter. . . .
Most people start to philosophize after a savory pot roast and a shot of liquor. Reb Nakhmen the…