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be leaving early. It was my duty to stay awake
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And suddenly
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And for you who move away, pensively,
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placed on the edge of that day
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to the labyrinth of yellow cheeses,
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Praise the mist, the warrior name
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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,