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Personal Note:

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Poem

What we want 
is never simple
we move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a book, a small room
and these things bear our names 
now they want us
but what we want appears
in dreams wearing disguises
we fall past
holding out our arms 
and in the morning
our arms ache,
we don't remember the dreams
but the dreams remember us
it is there all day
under the table
as the stars are there 
even in the full sun.

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