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    It's day again and again. My beating heart is aching again, and every moment of existence is shattered! The ancient thrills of compassion are not yet reserved for me! Now and then a rusty office door squeaks, - names are read aloud, in the silence pregnant with murder: the heralds, the ne'er-do-wells, the rookies, the wise ne'er-do-wells, the rookies, the rule of roll call, go to execution in order. 

    The patent buttons of a disheveled, masked suit cracked on me in the stifling heat, if it was fitting to confess the knowledge acquired, for one could hardly do otherwise! - During the day, glass and crystal-palace-shaped tear-balls rolled down the trenches of faces like soft and tender cries of supplication: we were artificially aged to our humiliated moments by the immortal thrill of fear. As if here on the planet a secret law of hopelessness were calling for admission - but fearful no one would hear it now. The camp of the more knowledgeable elders praised

    Licking the feet of brighter wits! - I wished to know, to unravel, to know the secret of the ancient One: How can the justice of grades really work? I have met with more subtleties, more fingernails, more than the sum of human speech! But only just voices of complaint, the adolescent revenge of judgments, have been sent from me; undeservedly and scattered as once the 

    called libraries of the brain. The creative intellectual workshops have closed their proud doors for ever!

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