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    Objects often call to me: the bunk-bed which my father chose with careful stubbornness: "This will do just fine for him", and the battered, battered, worn-out veteran's table: the bugs of time have stained it with shame! How dare I believe in the world-changing promises of smiles in the face of an unconscious child-glow!

    The repetitive Sisyphus-rope-walk of miseries, I feel, is yet to come! Now and then the feeling arises - but only secretly - in the rattling labyrinths of my heart: it was better to be an innocent child, who dared with a rattling, macabre obstinacy to believe the judging wiles of adults, and the brain-skulls, the empty-headed gorillas, too, willingly became friends. They have renounced the vendettas of lectures! 

    I wake daily with the haunting, prodigal fallacies of my past; buried in pessimistic superstitions like a camp of pathological phobics! I look out on my warring ridges in order: in the valley-cliffs men are striving sharply, spreading their material resources: perhaps through the seeing eyes of angels I can see strange signs, symbols, metamorphoses of emotion! 

    There was a time when they appreciated the beauties of my silken compliments. And in kisses they greeted my self-pitying mood, was-no world! With heart since then I am silent and mute! They soon forgot the music of the single beat, That together alone can make a perfect whole, As the footstones of ancient accord! 

    I carry many a wound hidden, Like a prisoner who's only escaped from the bars, But something holds his soul!

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