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We want to know yet what we goes on inside. And the morning came ,as the poet said. Mark my dreamĀ justĀ as the poet Strand might have said. The morning is just a dream. The cuckoo in the tree above is the very morning. Below our dream is green bench with cuckoo thoughts.

Somebody will some day weave the foggiest plot around it. My body will not figure in it and will be a third party sleeper doing nothing of it.

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