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Poem	It is so hard to see where it is, but it is there even in the morning when the miracle of shapes assemble and become familiar, but not quite; and the echo of a voice, now changed, utterly dissociated, as though all warmth and shared sweetness had never been. It is this alien space, not stark as the moon, but lush and almost identical to the space that was. But it is not. It is another place and you are not what you were but as though emerging from the air, you slowly show yourself as someone else, not ever remembered.
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