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We get rid of bad habits,
we apply bandage to the wound, the mystery is making a confession. A cat cuts your way, the awakened subconscious works, the perplexity arises why the will does not enter the action. A word of encouragement strengthens the chance you believe in, the letters build themselves like stones in the wall until the words make the castle which gate the poets sleep at. Next there’s the street to the station with pubs and sordid dens and drunks with Bohemia claims. The pain and poverty flow wasted like the oil on the pavement in pits. The night is coming like an old gypsy woman puffing a cheap cigarette. The gray mist inside yourself comes out of your skin through all your pores, the venomous nerves invade you, the uncertainty finds you empty left on a road with no coming back.
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