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Rot of stellar substance
Folder:
NO EYELIDS
The stage is set
And a paradox met.
We find ourselves
Among the stars
With no real control
Over ourselves
Or the circumstances in which we dwell,
But to perceive
And experience
The fabric of our seamstress.
How rough the touch!
Call it what you will,
A natural phenomenon,
A divine little scheme.
As I am falling asleep,
The sheep are counting me.
Do you know what I mean?
