"You're going to Pennsylvania?" our friends asked. "You're usually flying off to some destination we've never heard of, but the state named after William Penn? Why Pennsylvania?"
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I moved to Astoria on a February day, when the daffodils were in full bloom and the snow was on the red, red roses. I didn't need a green thumb to figure out what had been staring me in the face: These flowers were fakes.
With each death at the hands of the regime, a martyr is born, and with each martyr, the seed of revolution is planted.
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