A kind of bindweed began to strangle me…

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I was lying in the grass and not moving (at the end of the garden). It was the first day of the war. I lay an hour, two hours, I no longer remember how many hours I lay there. The grass grew through me, got entangled in my veins, the wild flowers blossomed out of my fingers and toes. A kind of bindweed began to strangle me, winding from one ear to the other.

– Nina Berberova, The Italics Are Mine 1939

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