Robinson
A Story
It was a story I felt I had to tell but there were so many ways to tell it. It didn't seem to matter in which order I placed the words the meaning never became any clearer. I tried to tell it this way and I tried to tell it that but the sense of it remained elusive slipping through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp. If only I could penetrate beyond the words and reach to the real meaning of the sentences tumbling from my subconscious. It was a dream. I tried to recall the place the time unknown. It never became clearer. The more I attempted to remember the details the more they eluded me. I was in a building, was it an apartment, some living space, a bedroom perhaps, was I alone, on a bed, was there another with me, a woman, were we entwined flesh on flesh like the words interweaving in and out of each other making phrases, sentences,paragraphs. Was it prose was it poetry the way we moved together like similes and metaphors, limbs confused and coiled. There was a window, I remember that much, an open window. It was spring a warm breeze brushed past the light curtain to caress our skin,your pale skin your eyes dark and wide black hair falling over your face. Over your shoulder I see the moon a full and solemn moon casting shadows across the room, a framed canvas of firmament the night sky contained by a window. I hear sounds from below we must be several floors up the way the sounds of the street echo in the distance we must be in a city. I hear a siren. You whisper in my ear I fail to catch the words they drift like leaves falling like a snow storm snippets cut up sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, syllables folding in on each other creating a new language and new meanings our caresses
creating new ways of communicating. What am I saying? What do I mean? We are here together here and now isolated by our own minds I wish I could say what was on my mind I wish I could make you understand I desire clarity I desire an end a definitive conclusion. But wait, I see the same scene now from an alternate angle, I am no longer myself with you I am another watching two people embrace in a hotel room escaping in each others' bodies, hiding from their everyday existence the mundane routine of basic survival a primal urge to liv she screams a passionate scream of life denial of death recognition of mortality she sees that all must end there is no beginning and there will be no end except for us here and now. We are born and we die of this we can be certain but the rest how can we know I think therefore I am I think therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell stories we want to transcend our own existence outlive ourselves by leaving something behind some marker some evidence that we were other than the memories of those who loved us. In death we find peace truth beauty the ambition of the artist the aspiration of the poet. The romantic soul believes that in poetry lies truth, that truth and beauty are interchangeable. If it is beautiful then it must be true. But if beauty is subjective then truth also must be subjective. How does this help with our story? What can the two lovers lying on a hotel bed tell us about the fundamental nature of things? What can a dream tell us of waking life? What can a story no matter how it is told and in whatever order we place the words tell us of the deepest meaning of our existence. Listen closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt I had to tell but there were so many ways firmament of the night sky contained by a window. I hear to tell it. It didn't seem to matter in which order I placed the sounds from below we must be several floors up the way the words the meaning never became any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of the street echo in the distance we must be in this way and I tried to tell it that but the sense of it remained city. I hear a siren. You whisper in my ear I fail to catch the elusive slipping through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp. Words they drift like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. If only I could penetrate beyond the words and reach to the cut up sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, real meaning of the sentences tumbling from my syllables folding in on each other creating a new language subconscious. It was a dream. I tried to recall the place and new meanings our caresses creating new ways of time unknown. It never became clearer. The more I communicate. What am I saying? What do I mean? We are an attempt to remember the details the more they elude here together here and now isolated by our own minds. I wish me. I was in a building, was it an apartment, some living I could say what was on my mind I wish I could make you space, a bedroom perhaps, was I alone, on a bed, there you understand I desire clarity I desire an end a definitive other with me, a woman, were we entwined flesh on flesh conclusion. But wait, I see the same scene now from the words interweaving in and out of each other making an alternate angle, I am no longer myself with you I am other phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Was it prose was it poetry watching two people embrace in a hotel room escaping in the way we moved together like similes and metaphors, each others' bodies hiding from their everyday existence the limbs confused and coiled. There was a window, I remember mundane routine of basic survival a primal urge to liv she knew that much,an open window. It was spring a warm breeze screams a passionate scream of life denial of death brushed past the light curtain to caress our skin, your pale recognition of mortality she sees that all must end there is no skin your eyes dark and wide black hair falling over your face beginning and there will be no end except for us here and over your shoulder I see the moon a full and solemn moon now. We are born and we die of this we can be certain but casting shadows across the room, a framed canvas of the rest how can we know I think therefore I am I think therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell stories. You whisper in my ear I fail to catch the elusive slipping. We want to transcend our own existence outlive ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp. Words they drift leaving something behind some marker some evidence like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. If only we were other than the memories of those who loved us. To penetrate beyond the words and reach to the cut up death we find peace truth beauty the ambition of the artist sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, the real aspiration of the poet. The romantic soul believes that, in the meaning of the sentences tumbling from my syllable folding poetry lies truth,that truth and beauty are interchangeable folding in on each other creating a new language subconscious. If it is beautiful then it must be true. But what if beauty is a dream? I tried to recall the place and new meanings of our subjective then truth also must be subjective. How do these caresses create new ways of time unknown? It never helps with our story. What can the two lovers lying on a hotel become clearer? The more I communicate, what am I saying? Bed, tell us about the fundamental nature of things? What? What do I mean? We are an attempt to remember the details. Can a dream tell us of waking life? What can a story know? The more they elude here together here and now isolated by matter how it is told and in whatever order we place our own minds. I wish me. I was in a building,what is it that words tell us of the deepest meaning of our existence? Listen apartment, some living I could say what was on my mind closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt I had to wish,I could make you space, a bedroom perhaps, was I to tell but there were so many ways firmament of the night sky alone, on a bed, there you understand I desire clarity I desire all contained by a window. I hear to tell it. It didn't seem to end a definitive other with me, a woman, were we matter in which order I placed the sounds from below we entwined flesh on flesh conclusion. But wait, I see the same,we must be several floors up the way the words the meaning scene now from the words interweaving in and out of each other never became any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of the other making an alternate angle, I am no longer myself with street echo in the distance we must be in this way and I tried other phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Was it to tell it that but the sense of it remained city. I hear siren prose was it poetry watching two people embrace in a hotel room escaping in the way we moved together like similes and death we find peace truth beauty the ambition of the artist's metaphors, each others' bodies, hiding from their everyday sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, the real existence limbs confused and coiled. There was an aspiration of the poet. The romantic soul believes in the window,I remember mundane routines of basic survival a meaning of the sentences tumbling from my syllable folding primal urge to liv she knew that much, an open window. In poetry lies truth. That truth and beauty are interchangeable was spring, a warm breeze screams a passionate scream of folding in on each other creating a new language life denial of death brushed past the light curtain to caress subconscious. If it is beautiful then it must be true. But what of our skin, your pale recognition of mortality she sees that all beauty is a dream. I tried to recall the place and the new must end there is no skin your eyes dark and wide black hair meanings are subjective then truth also must be subjective falling over your face beginning and there will be no end. How do these caresses create new ways of time unknown? Except for us here and over your shoulder I see the moon it never helps with our story. What can the two lovers lying on a full and solemn moon know? We are born and we die of this a hotel becomes clearer. The more I communicate, what am I? We can be certain but casting shadows across the room a saying - bed, tell us about the fundamental nature of things. Framed canvas of the rest how can we know I think therefore,what? What do I mean? We are an attempt to remember. I am I think therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell details. Can a dream tell us of waking life? What can the stories you whisper in my ear fail to catch the elusive knowing? The more they elude here together here and now slipping. We want to transcend our own existence outlive isolated matter by how it is told and in whatever order we ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp place our own minds. I was in a building, what is it? Words they drift leaving something behind some marker that words tell us of the deepest meaning of our existence, some evidence like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. Listen apartment, some living I could say what was on my mind. If only we were other than the memories of those who loved mind closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt to penetrate beyond the words and reach to the cut up to wish I could make you space, a bedroom perhaps, was I to tell but there were so many ways firmament of the night to liv she knew that much, an open window. In poetry lies sky alone, on a bed, there you understand I desire clarity and truth. That truth and beauty are interchangeable was spring desire all contained by a window. I hear to tell it. A warm breeze screams a passionate scream of folding in to end a definitive other with me, a woman, were we each other creating a new language, life denial of death matter in which order I placed the sounds from below we brushed past the light curtain to caress the subconscious if it is entwined flesh on flesh conclusion. But wait, I see the same, beautiful then it must be true. But what of our skin, you are pale we must be several floors up the way the words the meaning recognition of mortality she sees that all beauty is a dream. The scene now from the words interweaving in and out of each other tried to recall the place and the new must end there is no skin never to become any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of your eyes dark and wide black hair, meanings are subjective other than to make an
alternate angle, I am no longer myself then truth must also be subjective falling over your face. Street echo in the distance we must be in this way and I tried beginning and there will be no end. How do these caress other phrases, sentences,paragraphs? Was it to create new ways of time unknown? Except for us here but the sense of it remained city. I hear siren prose was it over your shoulder I see the moon it never helps with our poetry watching two people embrace in a hotel room story. What can the two lovers lying full and solemn escaping in the way we moved together like similes and the moon know? We are born and we die of this hotel, become death we find peace truth beauty, the ambition of the artist is clearer. The more I communicate, what am I? We can be metaphors, each others' bodies, hiding from their everyday certainty but casting shadows across the room a saying - bed, sentences rearranged, words alternating with words, the real will tell us about the fundamental nature of things. Framed existence limbs confused and coiled. There was an aspiration, canvas of the rest how can we know I think therefore, what of the poet? The romantic soul believes that in the window we are an attempt to remember. I remember mundane routines of basic survival a meaning of thinking therefore I don't know who I am. We want to tell the sentences tumbling from my syllable folding primal urge details. Can a dream tell us of waking life? What can the stories you whisper in my ear fail to catch the elusive sounds from below, we brushed past the light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here together here and now caress the subconscious if it is entwined flesh on flesh slipping. We want to transcend our own existence and outlive conclusion. But wait,I see the same, beautiful then it must be isolated by matter how it is told and in whatever order we be true. But what of our skin, you are pale we must be ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond my grasp several floors up the way the words the meaning recognition of our own minds. I was in a building, what is it? Words of mortality she sees that all beauty is a dream. The scene drifts leaving something behind some marker that words tell now from the words interweaving in and out of each tied to the deepest meaning of our existence,some evidence recalls the place
and the new must end, there is no other skin, like leaves falling like snow storm snippets. Listen,never become any clearer. I tried to tell it sounds of your apartment, some living thing I could say what was on my mind. If eyes dark and wide black hair meanings are subjective only we were other than the memories of those who loved making an alternate angle, I am no longer myself, then truth mind closely. I want to tell you a story. It was a story I felt must also be subjective falling over your face. Street echo penetrates beyond the words and reaches to the cut up to wish the distance, we must be in this way and I tried beginning and could make you space,a bedroom perhaps, was I to tell but there will be no end. How do these caresses and other phrases, there were so many ways firmament of the night to liv she sentences and paragraphs. Was it to create new ways of time? I knew that much, an open window. In poetry lies sky alone, unknown, except for us here and but the sense of it on a bed,there you understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren prose, was it over your shoulder that truth and beauty are interchangeable, was spring desire to see the
moon, it never helps with our poetry watching two all contained by a window. I hear to tell it. A warm breeze, people embrace in a hotel room story. What can the two screams a passionate scream of folding in to end definitive lovers lying full and solemn escaping in the way we moved the other with me, a woman, we were each other creating new together like similes and the moon knows we are born and the language of life and denial of death matter in which order we die of this hotel become death we find peace truth beauty the ambition of the artist is clearer. The more I grasp place several floors up the way the words communicate, what am I? We can be metaphors each meaning recognition of our own minds. I was in a building, others' bodies hiding from their everyday certainty, but what is it? Words of mortality she sees that all beauty is casting shadows across the room saying bed sentences dream. The scene drifts leaving something behind, some rearranged words alternating with words, the real will tell us a marker that words tell now from the words interweaving about the fundamental nature of things. Framed existence and out of each tied to the deepest meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. There was an aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalls the place and the new must rest,how can we know, I think therefore what of the end, there is no other skin like leaves falling like a snow storm poet. The romantic soul believes that in the window we are snippets. Listen,never become any clearer. I tried to tell it an attempt to remember. I remember mundane routines of sounds in your apartment,some living thing I could say basic survival, a meaning of thinking therefore I don't know what was on my mind. If eyes dark and wide black hair meanings who I am. We want to tell the sentences tumbling are subjective, only we were other than the memories, syllable folding primal urge details. Can a dream tell us of those who loved making an alternate angle? I am no longer waking life. What can the stories you whisper in my ear fail myself, then truth mind closely. I want to tell you a story. To catch the elusive sounds from below we brushed past the story I felt must also be subjective falling over your light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here together street echo penetrates beyond the words and reaches to here and now, caress the subconscious if it is entwined flesh cut up to wish the distance, we must be in this way and I on flesh slipping. We want to transcend our own existence try beginning and could make you space, a bedroom outlives conclusion. But wait, I see the same, beautiful perhaps, was I to tell but there will be no end. Then it must be isolated by matter, how it is told in caresses and other phrases, there were so many ways whatever order we be true. But what of our skin,you are firmament of the night to liv in sentences and paragraphs. Pale we must be ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond. Was it to create new ways of time? I knew that much, an open window. In poetry lies sky alone, unknown, except for a marker that words tell now from the words here and but the sense of it on a bed, there interweaving about the fundamental nature of things. Understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren prose, was it framed existence and out of each tied to the deepest over your shoulder that truth and beauty are meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. There was an interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalled helps with our poetry watching two all contained by a place and the new must rest, how can we know, I think window. I hear to tell it. A warm breeze, people embrace, therefore what of the end, there is no other skin like leaves in a hotel room story. What can the two screams of a passionate falling like a snow storm poet? The romantic soul believes a scream of folding in to end definitive lovers lying full and that in the window we are snippets. Listen, never become solemn, escaping in the way we moved the other with me,any clearer? I tried to tell it an attempt to remember. I woman,we were each other creating new together remembering mundane routines of sounds in your apartment, similes and the moon knows we are born and the language of some living thing, I could say basic survival, a meaning of life and denial of death, matter in which order we die of this thinking, therefore I don't know what was on my mind. If eyes hotel become death we find peace truth beauty the ambition dark and wide black hair meaning who I am. We want to tell of the artist clearer. The more I grasp place several floors the sentences tumbling are subjective only we were up the way the words communicate. What am I? We can be other than the memories syllable folding primal urge details, metaphors meaning recognition of our own minds. Can a dream tell us of those who loved making an alternative in a building, others' bodies hiding from their everyday angle? I am no longer waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty, but what is it? Words of mortality she sees that all whisper in my ears fail me,then truth and mind closely. I want beauty casting shadows across the room saying bed to tell you a story,to catch the elusive sounds from below sentences dream. The scene drifts leaving something behind, we brushed past the story I felt must also be subjective, some rearranged words alternating with words, the real will falling over your light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here together street echo penetrates beyond with our poetry watching two all contained by a place and words and reach to here and now caress the subconscious if the new must rest, how can we know, I think window. I hear it is entwined flesh cut up to wish the distance we must be in to tell it. A warm breeze, people embrace therefore what of this way and I on flesh slipping. We want to transcend the end, there is no other skin like leaves in a hotel room,our own existence tried beginning and could make you space, a story. What can the two screams of a passionate falling like a bedroom outlive conclusion. But wait,I see the same snow storm poet. The romantic soul believes a scream of beauty perhaps, was I to tell but there will be no end. Then folding in to the end definitive lovers lying full and that it must be isolated by matter how it is told in caresses and window we are snippets. Listen,never become solemn and other phrases, there were so many ways whatever order we are escaping in the way we moved the other with me,any may be true. But what of our skin, you are firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it an attempt to remember. I woman,to liv in sentences and paragraphs pale we must be. We were each other creating new together remembering ourselves through my fingers gliding beyond. Was it to create mundane routines of sounds in your apartment, similes and new ways of time? I knew that much, an open window. The moon knows we are born and the language of some living poetry lies sky alone, unknown, except for a marker that could say basic survival, a meaning of life and denial of words tell now from the words here and but the sense of it,death matter in which order we die of this thinking therefore on a bed, there interweaving about the fundamental nature I don't know what was on my mind. If eyes hotel become of things understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren death we find peace truth beauty the ambition dark and wide prose was it framed existence and out of each tied to the black hair meaning who I am. We want to tell the artist over your shoulder that truth and beauty are clearer. The more I grasp place several floors the sentences meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. There was a tumbling subjective other only we were up the way the interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as words communicate what I am. We can be other than the aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalled helps memories syllable folding primal urge details, metaphors meaning recognition of our own
minds. Can a dream tell us conclusion. But wait, I see the same snow storm poet of those who loved making an alternative in a building, romantic soul believes a scream of beauty perhaps, was I to others' bodies hiding from their everyday angle? I am to tell but there will be no end folding in to the end no longer waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty, definitive lovers lying full and that it must be isolated by words of mortality she sees that all whisper no matter how it is told in caresses and window we are snippets. My ears fail myself, then truth mind closely. I want beauty to listen, never become solemn and other phrases, they were casting shadows across the room saying bed to tell you so many ways whatever order we are escaping in the way we story. To catch the elusive sounds from below, sentences moved the other with me, any may be true, but what of our dream? The scene drifts leaving something behind. Skin, you are firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it brushed past the story I felt I must also be subjective an attempt to remember. To live in sentences and rearranged words alternating with words, the real will falling paragraphs pale we must be. We were each other creating over your light curtain to knowing. The more they elude here new together remembering ourselves through my fingers together street echo penetrates beyond with our poetry gliding beyond. Was it to create mundane routines of sounds watching two all contained by a place and words and reach in your apartment,similes and new ways of time? I knew that to here and now caress the subconscious the new must be an open window. The moon knows we are born and rest (how can we know?), I think window. I hear it is entwined the language of some living poetry lies sky alone, unknown, flesh cut up to wish the distance we must be in to tell it except for a marker that could say basic survival a meaning of warm breeze people embrace therefore what of this way and life and denial of words tell now from the words here and but I on flesh slipping. We want to transcend the end, there is no sense of it, death matters in which order we die of this other skin like leaves in a hotel room, our own existence tried thinking therefore on a bed, there interweaving about the beginning and could make you space, a story. What can the fundamental nature I don't know what was on my mind? If two screams of a passionate falling like a bedroom outlives eyes hotel understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren death we find peace truth beauty become solemn and other phrases, they were casting ambition dark and wide,prose was framed existence and shadows across the room saying bed to tell you, so many out of each tied to the black hair meaning who I am. We have ways whatever order we are escaping in the way we story. To want to tell the artist over your shoulder that truth catches the elusive sounds from below sentences move the beauty clearer. The more I grasp place several floors the other with me, any may be true, but what of our dream sentences meaning of our limbs confused and coiled. The scene drifts leaving something behind. Skin, you are a tumbling subjective other only we were up the way the firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it brushed past interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as words the story I felt must also be subjective an attempt to communicate what I am. We can be other than to live in sentences and rearranged words, aspiration, canvas of existence, some evidence recalled alternating with words, the real will, falling paragraphs pale memories syllable folding primal urge details, metaphors we must be. We were each other creating over your light meaning recognition of our own minds. Can a dream tell us curtain to knowing? The more they elude here new together conclusion. But wait, I see the same snow storm poet remembering ourselves through my fingers together those who loved making an alternative in a building, echo penetrates beyond with our poetry gliding beyond. A romantic soul believes a scream of beauty perhaps, was I to create mundane routines of sounds watching two other bodies hiding from their everyday angle. I am contained by a place and words and reach in your apartment, but there will be no end folding in to the end no longer similes and new ways of time. I knew that to be here and now a waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty caress the subconscious the new must be an open window. Definitive lovers lying full and it must be isolated by the moon. We are born and rest, how can we know words of mortality she sees that all whisper no matter how it thinks window. I hear it is entwined the language of some is told in caresses and window we are snippets. My ears fail living poetry sky alone, unknown, flesh cut up to wish myself, then truth minds closely. I want beauty to listen, never distance we must be to tell except for a marker that could say basic survival a meaning of warm breeze people a tumbling subjective other only we embrace therefore what of this way and life and denial of firmament of the night clearer. I tried to tell it brushed past words told now from the words here and I on flesh interchangeable spring of desire to see the moon as words slipping. We want to transcend the end, there is no sense of the story I felt must also be subjective an attempt to death matters in which order we die of this other skin like communication. We can be other than to liv in leaves in a hotel room our own existence tried thinking therefore sentences and rearranged words of aspiration, canvas of a bed, there interweaving about the beginning and existence, some evidence recalled alternating with words making you space, a story. What can the fundamental will falling paragraphs pale memories syllable folding I don't know what was on my mind? If two screams of a primal urge details metaphors we must be. We were each passionate falling like bedroom eyes hotel become other creating over your light meaning recognition of things understand I desire clarity and truth. I hear siren minds. Can a dream tell us curtain to knowing? The more death we find, peace truth beauty become solemn and others elude here new together conclusion. But wait, I see the phrases, they were casting ambition dark and wide prose the same snow storm poet remembering ourselves through my framed existence and shadows across the room saying bed fingers together those who loved making an alternative tell you so many out of each tied to the black hair meaning, echo penetrates beyond with our poetry gliding who I am. We have ways whatever order we are escaping in beyond. A romantic soul believes a scream of beauty is the way we story. To want to tell the artist was to create mundane routines of sounds shoulder that truth and catch the elusive sounds from below watching two other bodies hiding from their everyday angle. Sentences moved the beauty clearer. The more I grasp place I am contained by place and words and reach in your several floors the other with me, any may be true, but what apartment, there will be no end folding in to the end of our dream sentences meaning of our limbs confused and longer similes and new ways of time. I knew that to be here coiled the scene drifts leaving something behind. Skin you, and now a waking life. What can the stories tell you of certainty caress the subconscious the new must be an open space, a story. What can the fundamental will window? Definitive lovers lying full and it must be isolated by falling paragraphs pale memories syllable folding the moon. We are born and rest, how can we know words what was on my mind? If screams of a primal urge mortality she sees that all whisper no matter how it thinks details metaphors we must be. We were each a passionate window. I hear it is entwined the language of some is told falling like bedroom eyes hotel become other creating over caresses and window we are snippets. My ears fail living your light meaning recognition of things understand I desire poetry sky alone, unknown, flesh cut up to wish myself, then clarity and truth. I hear siren minds. Can a dream tell us truth minds closely? I want beauty to listen, never distance curtain to knowing. The more death we find peace truth we must be to tell except for a marker that could say basic beauty becomes solemn and others elude here new together survival a meaning of warm breeze people a tumbling conclusion. But wait,I see the phrases, they were casting a subjective other only we embrace this way of ambition dark and wide prose the same snow storm poet and life and denial of firmament of the night clearer. I tried remembering ourselves through my framed existence and it brushed past words to tell it now from the words here shadows across the room saying bed fingers together and I on flesh interchangeable spring of desire to see who loved making an alternative to tell you so many out of each moon as words slipping. We want to transcend the end,tied to the black hair meaning, echo penetrates beyond, there is no sense of the story I felt must also be subjective our poetry gliding who I am. We have ways whatever order attempt to death matters in which order we die of this other we are escaping beyond. A romantic soul believes a skin like communication. We can be other than to liv in screams of beauty,the way we story. To want to tell the leaves in a hotel room our own existence the thinking artist was to create mundane routines of sounds shoulder sentences and rearranged words of aspiration and truth and catch the elusive sounds from below watching canvas of a bed, there interweaving about the beginning and two other bodies hiding from their everyday angle. Sentences exist. Some evidence recalled alternating with words moved the beauty clearer. 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