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big bell says: ‘We are all strangers on our own turf, in our own time.’ You should have
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Mostly the world is lava’s rhythm,
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Who can blame us for wanting other worlds,
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I’ve weighed the alternatives, the hold
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fermented into green books of music, loud country music,
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He supposed that if you thought hard enough
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could teach the shadows
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the impossibile replication of weight
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It is poor comfort that the mind comes, saying:
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staring me down, serene and pitiless