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155 are prostrate and crippled. I can’t move its hands. Can’t move its legs. But its lips do not talk to Venus about the impending end of all lips of all kisses. Under this bright tree which is a symbol of the shade and you: I suffer as much much as this wounded beetle on this crazy wing sprung together by love and a blot. nothing Nothing exists that does not empty. Who are you feeling? Who do you bite in the morning? Our health when we’re sick is the body coming.            Our love, a mountain fuming        in the ocean like a graceful race such as black. When the shores overtake the continent. When the heroes are phony, and our house less than rubble will there be a bite, a memory still left? ...

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