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70 Call me a lyre, I dare you Last or some night light, who cares the when of this, glittered the tree up at the end of the wash from a car as moved the planet, I’m not in touch with personally Saturn, in branched fingers of eerily, I’d say off-the-shelf language, isn’t it necessary still how life lit into the moment to say other than the facts of it, see, whatever the bits are inside that oscillate or pinwheel, I was moved to internal whirring cicadish, even though my epiphanic dog-walkings mean shit to you in the throes of your epiphanic askings of the moon, for what, afterall are we in this, some random sense of, fuck if I know, belonging hicok pages i-120.indd 70 1/7/10 3:23 PM ...

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