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Your hands tend to the unspoken for--their touch, an intrusion upon shame. With a voice descending the depths of disillusionment, still your hands return, having never learned the difference. Within the master's footsteps a servant is born, secreted in his obscene necessity. (If the pale light falters will you open your eyes, or have you always welcomed this belated invasion?) And do you know the conclusion of each joy will come? Impartially, and yet, inevitably. Will you withstand its arrival as ever it is anewed? So careless a celebration can destroy with discouraging ease, you may hardly notice at all. Cradle the fragments of that which you hold dear but relinquish at last the strength of their memory. Please. This life is but consequence of some unknown before and will dry the tears of tragedy. Except that we are not allowed an indulgence of life. Stiff in the threat of furtive glances we have placed our faith in the folly of hope and are fearless, already outdone by the surrounding haze. (The only standard deprived of conclusive worth, laid writhing now within such knowledge.) Freed to explore the limits of this injustice, we're confined by its conviction. But after the acceptance of deception hits us, determined or not, we'll have to fail.

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