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post – Varese etc, not something tame like
the Songs for a Mad King: but it all passes, even the wind machines,
and the ape-shaped eyes, thoughts of death, leaves, corpse valleys,
memories, inscriptions.....
you turn back to The Romantics, for there is
something about you, something nobody can see:
as if you were the
one
in the
centre of a gigantic sound-shriek, and
batting up all hell, and no one
gives a fuck, especially with everything turning into grey gold
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