If the summer of 1941 was walling up around the likes of Rudy and Liesel, it was writing and painting itself into the life of Max Vandenburg. In his loneliest moments in the basement, the words started piling up around him. The visions began to pour and fall and occasionally limp from out of his hands.
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He had what he called just a small ration of tools:
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A painted book.
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A handful of pencils.
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第三十七章: 涂鸦 Sketches
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