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17 I Hold My Past I hold my past in the cup of my own hands. – A large collection of images, Of many places and many smells, Some more painful than others. Colours brilliant or drab, Events that show the condition inhuman – These do not make a picture. The images, scattered by constant change, are not connected. What lurks in the hollows Between time and time? An absence of adhesion, Like mother’s love, perhaps. The eternal spaces and The eternal child, both ignorant. How little that amounts to, The cup of one’s own hands. ...

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