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Things in Themselves
I shall never know what my feet feel about their enslavement, how my hands deal with the dictatorship of will. They have melted shackles to gain autonomy, risen in dreams to flutter enormously into my eyes, stumbled up stairs of sanatariums, divorced from the shadows of mortality. A product of australopithecene evolution, they have launched real and bottled ships. Essential appendages taken for granted, stranger than crystal rocks, they hold the nesting heart, but useless in caressing a cheek, or lifting a soul beyond its own reality.
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