We’re All Snowmen in Summer

Alexander Jech
Nov 6 · 20 min read

Kierkegaard Reviews Frozen

LIZZIE: — larious! The light doesn’t work.

JUN: I’m recording.

LIZZIE: You are? Well, that’s perfect too.

JUN: It’s fine, we’ll figure this out as we go.

LIZZIE: Right. Wish Professor Zanuck were helping us out, but — I think I’ve figured out the DVD player.

JUN: I think it’s working.

LIZZIE: Yes, we’ve got it.

JUN: We should explain what we’re doing.

LIZZIE: Oh — good point. *Laughs* Well, I’ll do it. We’re students of Professor Zanuck. Having been inspired by his “Love and Death” course on Kierkegaard, we’ve embarked on a brave adventure to review all kinds of things using Kierkegaardian categories. Opera, ballet, film, music. If it’s culture, it’s reviewable.

JUN: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

LIZZIE: Kierkegaard reviews everything!

JUN: That should be our name.

LIZZIE: “Kierkegaard Reviews Everything”?

JUN: Yes.

LIZZIE: Agreed. But I notice that Jack and Mallory and Cole are — we’re the only ones here.

JUN: Two is enough for Kierkegaard Reviews. One to review, one to interview. And today: Kierkegaard reviews Frozen.

LIZZIE: My favorite Disney movie. It’s almost realistic. Let’s get this done before Frozen 2 ruins the story.

JUN: You’ll be the reviewer, and I’ll interview you.

LIZZIE: Right. I’m just going to let the movie play until we get to where I want to start.

JUN: “Beware the frozen heart.” Do you think that this means anything?

LIZZIE: I like this song, but it seems dumb.

JUN: What do you mean?

LIZZIE: Like they made this song before they knew what it was going to be about. Before they knew that they would save Elsa. Maybe they thought it would be all about Elsa becoming cold and having a frozen heart. But she never seems that way in the movie. She acts cold toward Anna in the beginning of the movie, but when is her heart frozen? She just seems … anxious and worried and sad, not frozen.

JUN: True.

LIZZIE: So I think this song is dumb. “Beware the frozen heart.”

JUN: Beware Hans.

LIZZIE: *Laughs* Okay, yes, he’s frozen. And Weasel-town.

JUN: WESELTON.

*Both laugh*

JUN: But look, there in the first scene with the sisters — you already see their relationship.

LIZZIE: Anna is awake but somehow she’s unable to be alone. She needs Elsa’s help. She can’t play alone.

JUN: She’s not independent. Elsa, you already get the feeling she can be independent. She is the older sister, after all. But she can’t resist being drawn in and on by her sister’s energy and playfulness.

LIZZIE: A perfect pair, their weaknesses play off of each other and negate each other’s strengths.

JUN: That’s a little unfair.

LIZZIE: It’s fair. Elsa’s independent, Anna’s lively, but Elsa kills Anna and Anna cripples Elsa with her neediness.

JUN: Oh, that’s funny, but — look, but look, Elsa doesn’t kill Anna.

LIZZIE: Okay, but she almost does.

JUN: Their personalities complement each other’s. That means that they can either become greater than themselves or —

LIZZIE: Or, undermine each other, what I said. Right.

JUN: Look, Olaf really is there right at the beginning!

LIZZIE: Olaf is the real hero of the movie.

JUN: Of course you’d say that.

LIZZIE: He tells it like it is.

JUN: Oh, crap. She just got blasted by Elsa’s ice magic.

LIZZIE: Anna’s always leaping without looking.

JUN: She was actually looking where she was going.

LIZZIE: You know what I mean. She runs into life so fast that she arrives where she is going before she’s even seen her feet.

JUN: I guess that makes sense. And Elsa needs to see what she’s doing.

LIZZIE: She’s reflective, she likes to think too much. Or she’s about to become so.

JUN: She’s about to, but maybe she was always more prone to reflection anyway. Isn’t it interesting that she leaves that trail of ice as they ride?

LIZZIE: This is the first time the ice magic appears involuntarily.

JUN: But clearly it is not simply acting on its own. It is manifesting itself out of her fear.

LIZZIE: Is it fear? Or anxiety?

JUN: Do little children have anxiety? I don’t know. But look: the trolls!

LIZZIE: The wonderful, absurd trolls. Always speaking the truth, always untrue.

JUN: Well, they are “love experts.” That’s what Kristoff will call them later. And we know what Kierkegaard says about experts.

LIZZIE: They handle the truth in the wrong mood.

JUN: They’re like the man who tries to convince others that he is sane by tying a ball to his belt, and whenever the ball bounces against him, says, “Boom! The world is round.” His words are true but somehow wrong.

LIZZIE: I mean, look at how they scare Elsa here! They are making her terrified of herself.

JUN: Of herself, or of her powers?

LIZZIE: Look, they began that whole conversation by asking whether she was born with the powers or cursed with them. The parents say: “Born with them.” The powers are as much a part of her as the hair on her head. They emerge naturally from her. Imagine being terrified of your own hair!

JUN: That’s a weird image.

LIZZIE: Okay, you get what I mean. The ice isn’t identical with her, but it naturally emerges from her, like her hair.

JUN: Yes. It means that she can’t reconcile herself with herself. “Conceal. Don’t feel. Don’t let them know.”

LIZZIE: Wonderful advice.

JUN: There is something profound here. When you are in crisis, the “experts” are people who have the information you need, but you need more than just more information. Look: they say that “the heart is not so easily changed, but the head can be persuaded.” That goes to the heart of the matter. Any really profound crisis involves the heart. In any real crisis what is in turmoil involves the emotions, the spirit, the soul. More true propositions and expertise doesn’t cut to that level. Moreover, it’s quite possible to have the truth in that sense and still be an idiot in real life.

LIZZIE: Life might be a riddle, but it isn’t a crossword puzzle.

JUN: Right. In a crossword puzzle, if you have the true statement, you have the thing solved. But in life it never happens like that.

LIZZIE: Because you don’t see how to bring that truth to bear on the situation or on yourself. And you might not see how to make sense of what is true in any useful way. Isn’t this my review, anyway?

JUN: Yes. Well, here we go. The sisters are growing up.

LIZZIE: Somehow Elsa lives her entire life in her bedroom.

JUN: And for some reason Anna has no one to interact with in the entire palace.

LIZZIE: In terms of realism, this doesn’t make sense, but let’s look at this Kierkegaardly.

JUN: Okay. Then what?

LIZZIE: Clearly the outcome of the childhood accident is despair. Both sisters are in despair.

JUN: But different kinds. That’s tough to be in despair since childhood.

LIZZIE: I guess. Look, Elsa is easy to diagnose from The Sickness unto Death. It’s what he calls “despair over oneself,” a form of despair that becomes “inclosing reserve.” Kierkegaard says that for someone in this type of despair is like “a carefully closed door, and behind it sits the self … preoccupied with or filling up time with no willing to be itself.” She knows who she is — she’s the sister, the crown princess, and the ice-magic, all wrapped together — and she can’t be that. There is too much incoherence in the relation of her different elements. She can’t be sister and magical because being a sister means loving Anna, but being magical means harming or killing Anna. Her best move is to retreat from existence as much as possible.

JUN: What about Anna?

LIZZIE: Anna is hampered because everyone is lying to her. Essentially, though, she’s at the same level of despair as a typical Disney princess; grieving over something earthly. She does not have a very concrete idea of her self, except as an object of yearning that is opposed by some “necessity” that she hopes will go away. That “necessity” is just the door that Elsa has closed upon her self.

JUN: But forms of despair are ranked, aren’t they?

LIZZIE: Yes, that’s right. They are ranked by how conscious they are. Elsa’s initial form of despair is extremely conscious. She knows exactly who she needs to be and she knows exactly why she can’t be that person. Her despair is more intense and self-conscious than that of any previous Disney princess character. The others are where Anna is, a full level lower. They are all like the “ennobling girl” that Kierkegaard mentions in Fear and Trembling — they “do not look the impossibility in the eye.” Instead, they just keep believing that the obstacles they face will somehow go away. Frozen systematically destroys this hope and forces its princesses to ascend to genuine self-knowledge and insight.

JUN: Bold claims. Give me an example of a princess that is like Anna.

LIZZIE: Easy. Cinderella. She wants something she can’t totally name, she wants to be loved and to live in music, but is hampered by her place in her stepmother’s household. Rapunzel in Tangled. She longs to find her home, but she doesn’t know she isn’t there already. She believes that what hampers her from going out to find the lanterns is the dangerousness of the world, which is what Mother Gothel keeps telling her about, whereas really and truly, she is hindered by Mother Gothel kidnapping her and keeping her in the tower. Similarly, Anna thinks that the necessity is the door that Elsa has closed on her, but it’s really something else — it’s really Elsa’s fear of herself.

JUN: How are they like the ennobling girl of Fear and Trembling?

LIZZIE: They just keep believing that their dreams will somehow come to be. Rapunzel pursues an insane mission without realizing that it really is extremely dangerous. But it’s ennobling because at least they pursue their dreams and don’t just adopt petty, dumb pursuits from those around them — unlike Cinderella’s stepsisters, for example. And in Tangled they have that whole song about everyone having dreams.

JUN: That’s a good song. I love seeing all the hardened criminal-types singing about their dreams of playing the piano, finding love, becoming florists — it’s hilarious.

LIZZIE: You left out the fourth one, who dreams about wealth. He’s the outlier, of course. But you see why the ennobling girl matters. They’ve these dreams, but they’ve just about given up on them. The one with a hook for a hand who dreams of being a concert pianist? He’s certainly all but given up on that until she arrives and now he bursts into song.

JUN: So Rapunzel is ennobling because she reminds them of goals besides money?

LIZZIE: Money, food, booze, the base desires. Her belief in her dream returns them to their highest goals as well — at least for now. There’s no telling what that might mean for them after she’s left.

JUN: Oh my gosh, we’ve arrived. Elsa is singing “Let It Go.”

LIZZIE: This is so important. Elsa is already beyond the other princesses. Of course, she has now been crowned a queen, so she ought to be. But this is the point where she achieves a new, higher level of despair — defiance.

JUN: Can you explain that?

LIZZIE: What Kierkegaard says is that for the person in defiance, “the self is its own master, absolutely its own master,” but that at the same time, “this absolute ruler is a king without a country, actually ruling over nothing.” That’s Elsa exactly.

JUN: Well, I can see what you mean: she sings “No right, no wrong, no rules for me,” and yet all she has is “a kingdom of isolation.”

LIZZIE: That’s right. But see what she’s doing with herself — she is casting aside all external control to become her “self,” the snow queen, the magical queen. She is embracing those roles, but at the same time, she is undermining them.

JUN: What do you mean?

LIZZIE: Well, it’s like Kierkegaard said: she’s a queen without a country. The cost of achieving absolute freedom in this way was to separate herself from her actual kingdom, including Anna, so that she could have utter freedom to be and make herself. In Arendelle she is bound by the expectations and needs of others. She can’t achieve freedom until she abandons the expectations of her parents, her subjects, and her sister. Now she has that freedom, but the cost is that to live in freedom is to live in an imaginative construction, rather than in reality, with real people with all their needs and wants.

JUN: So she has utter freedom to be herself — just like students who leave home to go to college.

LIZZIE: Well, it’s somewhat like that. Obviously Elsa pushes this further than a typical freshman in the dorms can. College represents an expansion of possibilities but it requires a further step to actually try to utterly define yourself. Most students come to college and find new groups in which they find their identities.

JUN: I noticed that you do see her create Olaf during her song.

LIZZIE: Yes, she creates him and immediately turns her back upon him. This symbolically represents what she is really doing. To be utterly free, she needs to leave everything that defines her behind. She has to leave Anna behind. Her whole life, since the fatal moment of the accident, has been an attempt to keep Anna safe. Now she is going to forget all about Anna and be free — but if she has to leave Anna behind to be free from her, is she really free?

JUN: I don’t completely understand.

LIZZIE: Let’s just focus on Olaf. He’s like the serpent in the Genesis story. Is he real, or does he just represent the inward condition of temptation? Are those questions he asks Eve questions from someone else, or questions she is asking herself? In The Concept of Anxiety Kierkegaard treats the event as historical, but treats the serpent as a representation for a psychological reality, symbolized in the form of an external voice that reveals interior realities that would otherwise remain hidden.

JUN: So Olaf also represents a hidden psychological reality and makes it visible to the audience?

LIZZIE: Right.

JUN: What kind of psychological reality? The serpent represents anxiety, but Olaf seems to symbolize something else.

LIZZIE: Let’s examine the case. Olaf is created by Elsa, but he influences Anna.

JUN: Okay. Let’s start with Elsa, then.

LIZZIE: What do we know about Elsa? We know that she has magical powers which she has had “since birth,” the ability to produce ice and snow. Although it is initially said that she was not cursed with the powers, she herself will later speak of them as a curse. In childhood this “curse” is expressed in play and adventure, and is essentially tied up with her relationship with her sister Anna. She uses the magic in service of their sisterly friendship. But at a key moment she accidentally harms her sister with the ice magic and nearly kills her. This results in the prohibition: Do not use the ice magic.

JUN: So, Elsa has this natural power, and it becomes a curse once it is forbidden?

LIZZIE: Right. But since the ice magic is part of Elsa, she has an anxious relation to it. She has a natural tendency toward it, but dreads it, and this means that she is continually thinking about it. It’s like the children’s trick where you say “Don’t think about an elephant!” And now you’re thinking about an elephant. But imagine what it would be like if thinking about elephants produced elephants. That’s Elsa. When she sees those she loves, she thinks “Don’t use the ice magic!” But thinking about the ice magic produces the ice magic.

JUN: Okay — and since she cannot control it, she breaks off her relationship with Anna. She cannot risk harming her.

LIZZIE: Yes. And so the ice magic becomes what Kierkegaard calls the demonic: it’s a part of oneself that one refuses to integrate into oneself. This part that you refuse to recognize as you nonetheless hangs around, still part of you, but it can only emerge in uncontrolled, unintelligent ways — as if it were some external force. In Kierkegaard’s words, it is “sudden,” “the monotonous,” and “involuntarily disclosed.” Note that, from the moment of the accident when Elsa hurts Anna until “Let It Go,” this is exactly how the ice magic operates: it appears suddenly, but it always develops exactly the same way, the same, boring, expanding fractal of frost and icicles that form no larger design or idea, and threaten to disclose the truth about Elsa’s magical powers against her will. The more she thinks about it, the more anxious she becomes, and the more anxious she becomes, the more it happens.

JUN: That makes more sense than The Concept of Anxiety did to me.

LIZZIE: That was my favorite book in the whole class!

JUN: Well, I’m glad someone understood it.

LIZZIE: When does Olaf appear? He appears when Elsa identifies herself with what she had subordinated before. She had been anxious about the possibility of disclosing her hidden part, her magic, and wanted to “be the good girl you always have to be.” Elsa reverses this when she sings “Let It Go.” She is now free to manifest her ice magic, but she at the cost of canceling her relationships with others. So she is not really free. Olaf appears now, because he represents what Elsa is losing: she is giving up all possibility of a relationship with Anna.

JUN: So what does the snowman represent?

LIZZIE: Olaf is the recollection of sisterhood and its enduring significance. It’s crystallized memory of something emotionally charged and significant. Elsa cannot reconcile her interest in her sister’s well-being with the risk of harming her; psychologically, it is absurd for her to allow her sister near her. In becoming what Kierkegaard calls a “demoniac” she is abandoning her identity as “the beloved sister” to acquire infinite freedom of self-definition.

JUN: So this is why defiance is no real solution for Elsa? Her absolute rule is premised on rejecting everything that matters to her but her own freedom.

LIZZIE: And that is a lie. Anna does matter to her. She needs to actively forget that — and that is why she creates Olaf and has to leave him behind. Olaf is the combination of the ice-magic and sisterhood. Obviously there is a contradiction here. She wants to be the snow queen only, but her identity includes both elements.

JUN: Then Anna finds him.

LIZZIE: Yes — now, let’s talk about Anna. When Elsa abandons Anna outside the door, we watch Anna become a needy, fantasizing girl, who is obsessed with finding a relationship to replace the one she had with Elsa. This is why she is willing to marry Hans immediately. She is desperately trying to find what she lost.

JUN: Yes, we see that in “For the First Time in Forever.”

LIZZIE: And in every other interaction she has with people. But Olaf appears to her when Elsa’s secret has been disclosed and she flees. Now Anna realizes that her sister loves her and believes that she can get that relationship back. Recall that Olaf is the memory and enduring significance of the relationship — so ironically the moment Elsa tries to abandon it is also the moment that Anna begins trying to restore it.

JUN: She’d given up singing “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” but leaps into action the moment she sees even the slightest possibility.

LIZZIE: She’s still fantasizing, however. Notice what she says: “My sister would never hurt me!” Well, the audience and Elsa know what Anna doesn’t: Elsa has already hurt Anna. Anna thinks that this is shame on Elsa’s part or fear of rejection. She doesn’t grasp the full significance of Elsa’s isolation. But she is returning to that memory and trying to grasp what was essential about it, and what was essential to sisterhood was not only being loved but loving. So, gradually, she becomes aware of the possibility of defining herself by loving rather than by being loved.

JUN: Explain how this new, old aspect comes to the fore.

LIZZIE: The most important scene is the one when Anna is dying (because Elsa has harmed her again) and Hans abandons her. She is completely isolated in a cold, abandoned room, symbolizing her inner condition of feeling lonely and destitute of love. Olaf is, somehow, able to get into the room. Naturally, recollection of love is always at hand for someone is currently bereft of love, but who has known it before. That recollection will kill you if the only thing you can recollect is the significance of being loved. If that were what Olaf had for her, then she would not make it out. But Olaf says two key things in this scene: “You really don’t know anything about love, do you?” and “Some people are worth melting for.”

JUN: Why are these so important?

LIZZIE: Since Olaf is only the memory and enduring significance of their sisterhood, this must be understood as Anna’s internal struggle. This is the key moment when the memory of that love they shared becomes vivid to her because of its contrast with the false, exploitative love of Hans for her and the false, needy love she had for Hans. She was deeply confused about love, but is now becoming aware of its real nature as the giving of oneself to another. Anna now grasps the possibility of a new kind of self, a new way of being.

JUN: But she immediately tries to find Kristoff.

LIZZIE: At first, she grasps the new idea of love, but she still just wants someone else to love her that way. She wants to be loved with an unconditional, self-giving love, for someone else to melt for her. That’s the last, dying gasp of Anna’s broken, needy self.

JUN: What changes?

LIZZIE: When she realizes that she has to choose between giving this love and receiving this love. In that decisive moment — when she sees Kristoff coming toward her abut also sees Hans preparing to kill Elsa, she has to decide: love or be loved. And she decides to love.

JUN: So the trolls really are just like Kierkegaard’s asylum escapee. He repeats a true proposition (“the world is round!”) but it’s meaningless without its proper context of application. “Act of true love” is true but ambiguous.

LIZZIE: Correct. “Some people are worth melting for,” though, if it means anything, means you must be willing to “melt” for those you love. That is the new way of being that Anna grasps in her final moment.

JUN: Her final moment? You’ve seen the ending, right? She comes back to life.

LIZZIE: Yes. The mistake of the movie is to allow Anna to come back to life. This mistake is made apparent in the only other mistake in the movie, Elsa’s creation of a snow-flurry to keep Olaf alive in the summer.

JUN: You think this is a mistake?

LIZZIE: Well, either a mistake, or the filmmakers’ wink to the adults in the audience. We know that snowmen cannot survive in summer, not even with snow-flurries to support them.

JUN: So the movie operates at two levels — one for kids, one for adults?

LIZZIE: Or one for those ready to think like adults. It allows literal and figurative children to continue to believe that relationships can endure, that love wins, and that even self-sacrifice costs us nothing.

JUN: But the truth is the opposite?

LIZZIE: Anna lived up to the ideal of her relationship, and this was beautiful, but it killed her.

JUN: That’s dark.

LIZZIE: Tragedy is dark, but tragedy is true. Comedy is also dark, only it’s a darkness dressed up to seem pleasant. Olaf is comedy, a snowman who loves summer. It’s the same truth but we laugh, and in laughing, we think he represents something happy, rather than something dark. Look, love like Elsa and Anna’s is inherently fragile, like the snowman. It can only endure one season, the season of stillness symbolized by winter; it can endures for a single moment of time, but as soon as life goes into motion again, it must, inevitably, fail, because genuinely loving someone completely and with abandon cannot endure without significant suffering.

JUN: You think that love can’t survive change?

LIZZIE: Oh…just the opposite. Love can survive, but you can’t. Or you can survive, but love won’t.

JUN: Well, that seems disturbing. Go on.

LIZZIE: The appearance of change and life activate uncertainty and change, and so summertime is equated with sadness, not happiness, because summertime marks the moment when each individual experience a war in his or her mind driven by anxiety. It does not matter whether we have ice magic or not; Elsa’s anxiety, that she might irreparably harm someone she loves with all she is, is an anxiety for all of us. What do you think her most important song is?

JUN: “Let it Go.”

LIZZIE: The Reprise of “For the First Time in Forever,” where Elsa sings “Oh I’m such a fool I can’t be free / there’s no escape from the storm inside of me.” That’s the moment she achieves ultimate insight into her own condition. Her defiance, her attempt to invent a brand new existence, is impossible. She herself is a contradiction. She realizes that she is defined both by her love for Anna and by that in her which will inevitably harm Anna.

JUN: Okay, I guess that makes sense, but it’s not much of a song…more like some song fragments.

LIZZIE: I grant you that. But look what else happens: Elsa strikes Anna again, this time in the heart. The point is that harm has to be defined psychologically. If you harm someone but it doesn’t affect them inwardly — in the heart — then its significance can be overlooked. But some kinds of harm strike much deeper than that. Here, Anna realizes that Elsa will harm her despite loving her, maybe even because she loves her. That inflicts mortal harm on the needy, fantasizing version of Anna we’ve come to know. She finally catches a glimmer of the truth that it is precisely love that makes us vulnerable.

JUN: It’s an important moment.

LIZZIE: Yes. Kierkegaard and Elsa are very much alike. Kierkegaard loved his fiancée Regine with all his heart, and she loved him, but he had to break off the engagement, because he feared he would destroy her. His potential for harming her and ruining her life was too much for him. Like Elsa, he fled to his own “isolated tower,” he hid behind personae and the walls he put up, and like Elsa, he despaired in the end because of his isolation. When the gods gave man love — I mean true love — they ordained that it should always carry with it the fate of death.

JUN: Okay, umm…. Wow.

LIZZIE: Anna demonstrates wisdom by cutting short the thread herself, as one of Kierkegaard’s pseudonyms says. Anna is not one of Kierkegaard’s “knights of faith” but something else, a model of true love, a “knight of fate,” who chooses to love and die at the very same time.

JUN: Can you explain that?

LIZZIE: Sure. Kierkegaard imagines a kind of person, a “knight of faith,” who can love with abandon because he believes that with God all things are possible, even the absurd, and therefore, even when one knows how dangerous it is, one can love without counting the costs.

JUN: Then what about this “knight of fate” that you’ve just invented?

LIZZIE: Well, since there is no God present in the world of Frozen, we can assume that everything is not possible. The only choices are to live without love, like Hans, or to die for love, like Anna. But denying love, when love is part of your nature, is really just to destroy yourself. So the right choice is to embrace love knowing that one’s fate in loving is to suffer. The person who does that I call a “knight of fate.”

JUN: So what about Elsa? She does neither, she has someone else die for love of her.

LIZZIE: At some point, she’ll still have to choose either to love or not for herself. Maybe Anna’s sacrifice will mean that she does the same.

JUN: So this is what Anna becomes instead of the ennobling girl who just keeps on believing?

LIZZIE: Yes. She is ennobling to a higher degree, she represents the truth: she looks the impossibility in the eye, embraces the pain, and chooses to love anyway. There is no higher truth one could achieve.

JUN: Isn’t it possible that — even if you’re right and we should assume that “really” Anna dies for Elsa — that her sacrifice transforms Elsa?

LIZZIE: How?

JUN: I don’t know, but don’t you think that seeing someone love you so much that she died for you would make an impression on you?

LIZZIE: Maybe she will feel really guilty.

JUN: But maybe she will realize something else about herself, discover a new way of being based on knowing someone loved her that much.

LIZZIE: Sounds like wishful thinking, to me.

JUN: Perhaps. I think she has the chance to become a new kind of person, now that she knows someone loved her as she was, despite all she’d done. Maybe she’d just feel guilty, as you say. But maybe she’d feel grateful instead.

LIZZIE: Could be. I think that the only thing she could do would be to love the same way Anna did and become a knight of fate herself. This is the ultimate wisdom in an Eden where no voice speaks.

JUN: There you have it, folks. The conclusion of our first edition of Kierkegaard Reviews Everything ends in a dark place. Return for more thrilling content of the same kind next week… assuming we don’t die of love before then.

Alexander Jech
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