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a breath envelops the foreign

edges, the blue and western

fields, where water gets bred.  If the silences stop, then

what will the fountains, say?  A light behind the

sun.  Is true like God?  Is it empty with

photons?  what are those clowns in

congress thinking?  Why haven’t they flown

away yet?  This is where the orient begins, where

exhaling is extra.

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