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Posted on Monday the 18th of October 2010 at 12:02 AM

About:

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Preludes (IV)
T.S. Eliot

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