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This Manuscript Is Definitely Falling

Then i hung it up as a portrait of a unicorn that was made from the first wand far along

The trail into history, far into the mystery of where it was I found that perfect stick that

I swear, I don't know what kind of wood it was, where did that tree come from, CHINA

It was rare, it was rarer than rare and still spry, it is about the bark you don't erase when

Thinking sticks and skins, it was hung up there, where she stood, before it was then hung

Up to the right of him, where was the string, the nail from the temple stairs, where had it

Been, the head was painted blue, there were feathers two, or four, I actually saw it once

At the Cloisters, all things turn to sand in the memory of the garden of enchantment with

Dancing girls whom all things revolve around, where the paint is sounding confused, in

My memory she is painting her portrait on her own back with water colours that moved

The clouds, out of nothingness, then, always a pointing hand filling in a groove, finding

Nought to be improved by the wreckless thought of abandoning all attachment to whom

Myself one and the same it is a take away game from the thought of who's on first, it

Was a dream back then, from a further land, it is called squaring the circled moon.

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