Parading

But it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.

You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.
You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.
Must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?
Must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?
Only night knows for sure; the secret is safe with her. —John Ashbery
Only night knows for sure; the secret is safe with her.
—John Ashbery

atoms

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