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I don’t know it I don’t know it yet
not in vertical,my daily position
anyway I’m singing the continuous escapes
the candid bones,my sleepy touch
actually I don’t know my obsessions
they are sincere they are made of glass
so I’m looking for the survivors
one hundred miles after the strangers
you see – I have a touchdown existence
and the houses are welcoming
half-closed they watch some late conversations
the clearest one embraces a dirty white




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