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Poem	A stationary sense... as, I suppose, I shall have, till my single body grows Inaccurate, tired; Then I shall start to feel the backward pull Take over, sickening and masterful - Some say, desired. And this must be the prime of life... I blink, As if at pain; for it is pain, to think This pantomime Of compensating act and counter-act Defeat and counterfeit, makes up, in fact My ablest time.
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