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Man in the long black coat
At the height of his anger and desperation
he finds himself at his most creative;
Turning up the internal volume,
Blocking out the white noise,
distraction and despair.
The world becomes a thing of his making once more.
Making sense of the world through his fingertips;
Expelling into fiery mists of jet stream digits,
The furry of creation!
Chattering
Clattering, like tap dancing fools!
The mute have no hands
for explanation.
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