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47. There is no right or wrong in Proust, says Samuel Beckett, and I believe it. The
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tell me straw into gold tell me crept into fire
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I’d never look back
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I used to think that to write poems, to make art,
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Level as moonlight, some lost aspect
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I ran into the handwriting of yours
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spray of ink most certainly
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Freedom is a rocket,
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To be the thing not touched by light (no that’s not it)
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And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn