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Why aught this
I hold all my truths to be a nuisance.
I hold all my shortcomings to be a riddle.
Through smoke and fog of plenty I am blinded to that which I should fear but in pride I do not.
Comfort is a great hubris.
What distracts that which we deam pleasurable?
What cause can awake us.
Does it always have to be horrible?
Copyright ©
Milton Batchelor
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