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Message at Sunsetfor Bishop Berkeley How could nothing turn so gold? You say my eyelid shuts the sky; in solid dark I see stars as perforations, loneliness as blues, what isn't as a heavy weight, what is as nothing if it's not ephemeral. But still the winter world could turn your corneas to ice. Let sense be made. The summer sun will drive its splinters straight into your brain. Let sense be made. I'm saying vision isn't insight, buried at last in the first person's eye. You should see it: the sky is really something. 149 ...

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