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30 am come by little countries to the yes

of her youth. And if somebody hears what i say—let him be pitiful: because i've travelled all alone through the forest of wonderful, and that my feet have surely known the furious ways and the peaceful,

and because she is beautiful

Picasso you give us Things which bulge: grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind

you make us shrill presents always shut in the sumptuous screech of simplicity

(out of the black unbunged Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes or

between squeals of Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness solid screams whisper.) Lumberman of The Distinct

your brain's axe only chops hugest inherent Trees of Ego, from whose living and biggest