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your hands fizzle into

whirpools that tell the future,

but only when you are in sky and

conversing with when with

ox heads and tongues with

british atheist wit.  They cast a drizzling

spell across the hinterlands, where

I grab the head of a stag and we

meet to join the hordes wandering

south, fighting into africa

jumping on the backs of hartebeest, plunging the

earth into menses

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