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 | He stares out over the Stillwater Harbour. |
| always, with cool hurry, stepping over days the wind is pushing and withdrawal birds pressed south, albeit the warmth here is end-up. he sinks the ship with the ballast of grave-yards. volley of cars, a noisy pantomime, the traffic imitates a city â these coldstones, from our height, overlook the cogs, churnings, stacks of horizon large and rigid with a production of trinkets. end-up to this illusion, nature contains us. |
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