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Poem	This present tragedy will eventually turn into myth, and in the mist of that later telling the bell tolling now will be a symbol, or, at least, a sign of something long since lost. This will be another one of those loose changes, the rearrangement of hearts, just parts of old lives patched together, gathered into a dim constellation, small consolation. Look, we will say, you can almost see the outline there: her fingertips touching his, the faint fusion of two bodies breaking into light.
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