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Our souls are meteors in a star shower, come to life in the big bang, a sexual explosion disgorging its rock-sperm across a gravity field. Some enjoy the flight from one creation to another, from the Godly testicle to the cosmic egg. In them motion has promulgated the world as will. Some are no fliers. In fatalistic ease they waste, born without gratitude, not destined ever to pierce the egg.
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