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You came in by shattering the wall, new weapons on Your shoulders: Our Lady of Venom and large bowls of young
bull's blood. My two hand are cold, I said to You, and that's just fever that warms me. If it keeps snowing all winter, I shall crawl on my knees under the skies. I feed on Your works as a wolf feeds on the jugular vein. I shall create the world as You wanted it: with indistinct flavors on guard in mandolins. With heavy grass-beds harbouring legions of bridegrooms. With flames and bitter preserves. I shall build the world on musical sounds that befog one's body and wear out one's soul. Touched by a flow of brown butterflies. A fleeting thought stuns me: am I Your creatures' keeper and know it not?
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