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blood drips between my legs; and the weak sunshine feels cold; the clock plunders a loose memory; I am now an alien thing, lewd echoes of a questioning grin with a too loud voice listening to the radio; and invisible, in a room without mirrors. They are no use. A wasting thought flaps deftly from its head as one discovers something of thin love, out of lonliness and its admonition from some unknown cause. I ask forgiveness; and that is a machine of destruction. We are guilty in any illumination.