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Interruptions I long for some, even one would be a beginning, not this long flat stretch ofjust me and my improvising of waste, of a kind of heroic negligence that life does not appreciate. My loved one is wobbling-O creme de menthe! See, I am making my own interference, jerked stratagemher overcoat, my cottage. Why are we so bad? I hear them faintly knocking, neutral ducks, and I am reprimanded. I am thinking "scalloped potatoes" are of absolutely no use. I'm thumping my canteen and pointing at my nose. Yes, I lied about "her," there wasn't one, but for that moment a gourd drifted down the chimney on the pretext of weeding a peninsula and nourishing the articulation of a single bud. Am I forgiven? Forgotten? This is the constellation of my own bewilderment. Please, someone interrupt me. Hence, whatever, reverts. ...

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