the summer days in rust, default purgatorium, the wheels run, fast sylphs of time -- the days eek bya nest, a stocking-run, a sigh. and I wait,though the fetal heart throbs within -- idea of someday,remade, when time will finallybe less foe than friend.
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 