Narration
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NARRATION That man walks along weeping no one knows why sometimes they think he's weeping for lost loves like those that torture us so much on summer beaches with the gramophones. Other people go about their business endless paper, children growing up, women ageing awkwardly. He has two eyes like poppies like cut spring poppies and two trickles in the corners of his eyes. He walks along the streets, never lies down striding small squares on the earth's back instrument of a boundless pain that's finally lost all significance. Some have heard him speak to himself as he passed by about mirrors broken years ago about broken forms in the mirrors that no one can ever put together again. Others have heard him talk about sleep 127 images of horror on the threshold of sleep faces unbearable in their tenderness. We've grown used to him, he's presentable and quiet only that he walks along weeping continually like willows on a riverbank you see from the train as you wake uncomfortably some clouded dawn. We've grown used to him; like everything else you're used to he doesn't stand for anything and I talk to you about him because I can't find anything that you're not used to; I pay my respects. 128 ...



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