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Twenty-First. Night. Monday

by
 Twenty-first.
Night.
Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why -- made up the tale that love exists on earth.
People believe it, maybe from laziness or boredom, and live accordingly: they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, and when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some, and on them silence settles down.
.
.
I found this out by accident and now it seems I'm sick all the time.

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