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Confessionist Busted and booked, and all for love. We used to rip off clothes, and lie, steal time alone. I was taken with him. Let me tell you it's embarrassing, here in the haircut's architecture, here in the secret chair. I dwell on two antiques: the moon, and the man that was in it for me. We used to love the moving amplitudes of radio—the earplug, roadmap, fact faced in a blue clock. Soon we'll have the afterlife to love. And in the meantime artists take to the networks, cackling doppelgangers as their stunt-men. All you have to do is wive your innuendi, bring the whole house down. Trash is material, truck of hunches, fridges and ovens of dump. After the frontal lobotomy you know no one from two in the echo chamber, no one from Adam. 132 ...

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