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In the afterlife, our old recall Sharp snap of salted scallions And pebbly kick of crunching cucumbers. The young dwell on fucks like fables. Friend, foe, hole up in stories, Pale faces haunting like light Hinting through a keyhole. Past's a habit to be broken, Yet nobody's ready for the great forgetting, Mesmerized still by the marvel of hurt That made us men.
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