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an alligator pas de deux |
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america is a global terror network. but let's not worry about that. |
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america insists. ok, waddayagonadoo. |
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brother sun sister moon |
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cementary hum |
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cetashus |
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when i say you gotta go in your crib now comet he runs and jumps in the the big bed. |
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copp rescues mickey maus from death by water after i throwed him in. |
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dance of hallway souls |
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a dog and pony show |
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dogs are the best confessors if you aint religious |
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envy of a fur coat is misplaced |
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the eye of a comet |
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fur arcades |
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hedy lamarr |
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hildy and her gator dance |
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i believe one day the freedom fighters will win. naive, right. |
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i remember those night volcanic roads in santorini, the sheer drop with a boneyard of cars, the drop in our groin, the intake of precipice. |
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is that smoke or cloud. |
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it is both. |
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it seems dumb but i just thought freedom is only a struggle |
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it's really weird, the thugs below are silent, burning incense. |
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little prince |
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looking up to mister cuz he's a genius at life |
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loss of the unlived resides |
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a good nose for trouble |
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partying a little death where my diving platform waits |
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later i will leave the maus adrift and you will say that's ok, he was already washed up when we arrived. |
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the hunger for story is not a real hunger |
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it's a fictional hunger |
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but like belly hunger it can only be temporarily assuaged. |
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and then the quest must begin again. |
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Add caption |
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the body knows no theology but it knows john donne implicitly |
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the children watch the executions for training |
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referring to the comedians |
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the rime of the golden mariner. |
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the school of waiting. it's closed? |
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tomoro we resume the struggle |
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i said, we gotta hide out here, in the west. the midwest. |
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we only count our dead, |
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bring what wounds freedom. what wound freedom brings. |
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who knows who but ill be, |
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one narrator reader alone in the cramped foreground of somewhere vast and vague, paraphrasing gerald murnane.
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