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46 thoughts Excuse me, isn’t that you I see concealed underneath there Inside the shield, or conning tower, of your head, Your eyes looking out of the perforations in your flesh? How can you think you can see from out of liquid, anyway? Are rain puddles watching me even now, And can ducts which punctuate the underground of a field Examine it at will for buried treasure? Is the rain outside your window a voyeur, then? Deep down under all that, though, Underneath the liquids and the various unobservant stuffs, There is a spirit, shifting around from foot to foot. ...

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