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Poem	The clouds ache bleakly and when they can manage it crush someone's head in without a sound of anger. This is a brutal mystery. We meet in the streets with our hands in our pockets and snarl guiltily at each other as if we had flayed a cloud or two in our salad days. Lots of things do blame us; and in moments when I forget how cruel we really should be I often have to bite my tongue to keep from being guilty.
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