Why do the clouds strain a perfect view
whenever my thoughts floss up?
I think of other things I'd like to consider:
Like the life of
a collector of
internal revenue.
I'm here, Christmas will come anyway,
No matter what will happen
No matter what time of night,
No matter my opinions on
Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet.
What is the world if
without a dream sea
there'll be no tide to wash on,
the words I'm writing
whether right or considered
composed semiautobiographically?
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