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    Out there, the brainwashed, rude, wild apathy was up to his neck.
    Silent moonlight faces dig deep grooves for themselves,
    while there will be a time when the Past-Present will be buried long ago. Career-dreams, dream-jobs, longing-for-everything-loves dissipate into ice-cold cosmic space, like the last separation from Life before the heart attack!

    I recognize you grotesque, twisted face! In the depths of curved mirrors, like a little worm from sly, you hide at your pleasure, while the Being outside is brewing or grinding: whenever you have a minute's taste for which. Perhaps the disgust of hiding doesn't bother me as much as the prying evil of vile people, the shame of humiliation.

    The dear-lovely words sound like a wind-blown gallows on the lips of the Superstitious Dear; they dry up and crumble under the aged palate. The faithful mirror still holds famous faces! They march without shadows, like code-wandering ghosts on an auditorium stage, those who merely passed through, but I didn't stay on the One Life!

    In the soul of man there is a fluidity. It's like he's secretly preparing to go under train tracks. It's as if he himself is secretly stepping into the stupid piles of booze that represent his entire existence, instead of his deserved Happiness. Shadow memories remain in Alzheimer's brains, nothing else!

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