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51 The Mask Has Fallen Every time I hear them use the word freedom I see it— the whole procession of nails the carnival of rusty iron spikes raised at the ready. Green clouds— catastrophic weeping the final transgression of braided fields and meadows whole forests collapsing into powdery erosions of broken trumpets and punctured drums, and then the desert rewinds into itself— into the coil of the rattle. And they know what they are saying and they know what they have done. ...

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