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Poem	What is it about the Abyss that tempts the young poet to kiss the air and head for the nearest cliff? This unreasonable attachment to the bliss of falling -- what accounts for it? Unlike the hiss announcing a reptilian presence, the word Abyss creates the object of our dread: it exists, it is, widening like the gulf between whis- key and wine, and we, drunk on neither, miss the days when we, too, tumbled headlong out of heaven, pissed
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