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Meursault
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All Creatues Will Make Merry...Under Pain Of Death
So long ago that I'm not even sure if the eyes that the eyes that meet me in my sleep are yours at all or a mirror of my own.
You were there in the crowd when they tore you to the ground and through your flesh and bone they did march claiming all as their own, leaving nothing for yourself.
We burned those wolves last night and their remain to remind that in museums made of these flames we were born, we will grow and we will die.
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