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so states of unsatisfaction, objects which we see, or which reveal an absence,
with the only force of which the individual recovers is susceptive uniqueness.
so you might consider as the option that isolated existence of ours is the chance to exceeding what we can do without the power to do it.
it's all very well precise and votively mysteriously which, he, like the stone statue, encroaches in ability.
i now present the poet is eager to extract some petrified valintromness of the past,
but the images which he left are situated in a life which was open and infinite in Baudelaire's sense of the word.
a time to ease your solace, a time to be so small.
http://www.myspace.com/ihatestuckupbitches
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