We must soak in ourselves before trying to tame the forces around us. Crouched in some crooked corner hit the right angle of solitude. Between satiety and the stale ecstasy of exaltation. A splinter in time. In the twilight hour of being, the password poems barnacle upon the threshold. Retreat, retreat to the human fort to loiter freely. Where off from the antechamber recedes the din of men, where solitude is nameless and the crumbs of language trail off...
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