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if your complicated lifestyle

was on the edge of a paintbrush, you

would demand that every edge of every

bristle would have a different

timbre, it would vacillate between

texture, between timbre, between

tolls of colour.  he wants to cry in your arms.  he wants to

know your golden age.  there is a man

who wants to feel that call of violence, he wants to

float above the ground and stop

before his brains turn red, before the

year turns to the next.

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