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Ba da, Anne Sexton, sigur că/ se pot construi gărdulețe albe/ de lemn care să țină/ coșmarul departe.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
And then drive back home, still with nothing to say
Like in a certain Beckett play, unifiers never make it on time
June 28, 2015 by ocdlit
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