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though scars fade. I have memory on loan
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Outside it is autumn, the philosophical season,
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whim, as if there were no time, and there isn’t,
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The essential idea is this — all objects are composed of vibrating anxieties
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it slides over and spirals up in one high thin note
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I hate / the thought, whizzing by in red clothes.
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always another campaign to march across
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Come, lovers of dark corners,
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The sky is getting dark tonight
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I live a small life, barely bigger than a speck,
