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Beginnings are a beautiful thing — beautiful and terrifying, marked by the wonder of the possible and the weight of the possible.
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“It is a general sense of the poetry of existence that overcomes me.
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In the first days of a bleak London December in 1827, a small group of mourners gathered on a hill in the fields just north of the city limits at Bunhill Fields, named for “bone hill,” longtime burial ground for the disgraceful dead.
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