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When I’m dreaming
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I have gone to Swan City where the ghost
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isn’t there some oscillating connection between a cycle and a trajectory?
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All those I remembered passed through my hands like clouds—
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In the end,
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I don’t think about you
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The truth has many forms which are not its form
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Ah, Love, there is no fleeing from thy might,
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Is it a sin to take the moon? On a night like this?
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How you can blow up
