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Then what’s left is not enough to live on.

There are fires breaking out in the valleys beneath

The house, locusts in the fields. For days,

There is longing like nothing else; for

Weeks, prohibitions against change of any kind.

So you remain out of order, falling from the

Heights of sleep over and over again. And

What is the source of this haunting other than

Then the melancholy of a world without reason?

I shouldn’t differentiate between symbols

And the scaffoldings of thought. It all folds back:

A self-centered experience is an anthracite mine:

A pit dug into the terror of insight.

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