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• Arc as ark hides hives, swarming in relation to the rest of reason.
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the air moves in
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if I must have
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It is almost as if
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And though my soul, being tired of its pain,
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Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on the earth,
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And the silence will set out
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the right word,
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I don’t believe the sky is blue;
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where we live out an idea of permanence