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At the vaulting dome the waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name. The flying metal bird will take two full hours .In the meantime the angels in turquoise will feed our appetites.There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado.

We try to shut out noises of after-death failure.We blame ourselves for failures as though they really mattered to us and the dead. We read patterns in the grey whys of decay. As if the whole thing is a science of death and we have nearly mastered the art of dying, of succumbing to the need to maintain transience.

We smugly wear the polyester film of transience about us .We read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.


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