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throw away my old washed-out notions. Clappers charge up a new system and tones follow strangely. Dragging, still dragging. But strangely. Lines lose their current means — they should from time to time. Bargainings reach agreements constantly against me. OK, paranoia. Rot my soul. Take control. What makes me live. God, it’s so bluesy, like Oxford singing harmonies counter-melodies. The bookshelf is empty. Take off some clothes, maybe just a scarf will do. Anything.


        Drag me over and fall on me nonchalantly, and see what I’ll do. Kill space.


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