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The material of the cosmos crumpling
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You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.
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Come, the wind may never again
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It’s a kiss of course it is a kiss.
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I remember only theory, what we said concerning
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explodes into an arrangement of stars
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The intentions of my attitude
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the heart lurches left and right,
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the heart lurches left and right,
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in the gray rain,