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18 Pleasure A sleight-of-hand equilibrium being produced as bees pass one another, a ticklish rumble shuttling between blooms. I’d like to think I’m one, no, all of them. * This sense of my senses being mine is what passes life to life? How distinguish one light from the next? Only distinctions can matter. (Canned matter.) 19 * Just made up of tuning fork ferns, blackbird pipe-lettes: little golden self-measuring extents ...

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