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I can feel what

the cathars say

when the flocks go out from

the barn.  I ignore their words,

but they position the sun and

procure wool.  at the end of the day, the

city is built and

men from all the corners

of the world play music together.  they joke about

war, but don’t commit any.  sadness is written

on their t shirts.  it’s witty and

candid, but its melancholic cotton nonetheless.

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