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'He forgets all the goings on of the great going on everywhere, dabbles lines from adolescent old poetry mish mash mush with his stream of today's right now consciousness, he knows he is definitively work-sick, knows also that bacteria have bacteria and that reality ticks on in his stomach and kidneys as well as everywhere else, yes of course, but what of world and girls and football and literature and God and travel and all and girls and all, it flashes flush on whatever his brain is, a mixed up letter to himself unending, the prose poem of self, big and now, lines from all places blended and splashed, shoved together so he can get some idea of what he is or could be; he recites rememberingly, do I dare disturb the universe, look deeply into this reflecting glass, study the image that studys me, was this man meant to be, or not, he survived the cot, grew and thought , grew and thought, picked up what God and others taught, became a man, developed stature, saw his life in angelic rapture, but now reaches in, far down, can't find the once bestowed crown, breathes too close, loses himself, mind numb, ill at health, too much breathing and thinking and breathing, life itself now leaves him seething, for who would fardels bear, if sudden silence could take care, lead us all into eternity in heaven, pish posh, trash of a romantic knight in dented and thin armor, blood bleeding from wounds and welling in his boots to curdle by his toes, you aren't the man of a thousand million poetic ramblings of that other century, not any more you aint..'