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I feel this conversation coming on. And it is going to be Uncomfortable (although I'm not entirely sure why it should be, just that it is...). I already told T I'm bringing a blanket to hide under tomorrow...
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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