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Poem	Like summer in some countries and like rain in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer, like food for chefs, for invalids like pain, You've occupied a large part of the year. The during months to those before and since would make a ratio of ten to two, counting the ones spent trying to convince myself there was a beating heart in you when diagrams were all you'd let me see. Hearts should be made of either blood or stone, of both, like mine. There's still December free - the month in which I'll save this year, alone.
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