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Perhaps we should read breathing as an extremely dangerous but aromatic book, for we might feel our minds articulating a synthetic and inevitable ring.
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In this light, the process of the poet resembles arresting facts which glow red when we insist upon a different color.
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We pretend the essence of his work is due to its relative rarity, thus causing peculiar parts to be leached into individual bodies.
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We endeavour to find something that can dwell in the poet’s flare, only a practical defense in the war to smother civil being under burning order, to dry cities with property, to exclude the immediate atmosphere of difference. |
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