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I Don’t Know, but It’s My Job to Tell You for my brother
With long hands and a sidewalk mind,
while a mouse in a mound births beside a watchface, when it’s late so put it down, and to say so strips the air from adjoining rooms and calls on one’s countervailing sense of skin as the angel of skin, say nothing of the skies of death, their clouds, you are the size of a kidney bean, you have a heart.
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