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A random walk, its ordinary motion
blurring chronology. Behind, a
seascape. As if on a ship's deck.
Fear of defeat is an old habit. All this fuss, with my
hat pushed back. Honeyed phantastic. En-
raptured soul. Another blow.
From the end of the corridor, at the kitchen
window. These frosts are cruel. I am not
up to them. Out on the balcony, basking.
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