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a soldier came to me

with words from an

ancient book.  the young man was

young, four or five years

old.  he took a

cigarette from my

blindfold and

smoke the eternity of it

from one breath.  he told me about love,

things that I didn’t know.  the numbers he

used were older than his

words too, they were from a

holy

land, from where the

desert patches don,t have names, unfiltered

and brut.

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