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Throw out the anchor
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Then listens to her mind’s perverse debate
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I am there already past snowy clouds, balding moss, dim
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here is the deepest secret nobody knows
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Things fix time
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We’ve been told space
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The risk is a part of the rhythm
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What to do? What to do?
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O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes,
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Orphaned cloud, fish soup poppling,