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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
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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