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December 2, 2024

If my praise her grace effaces,
Then ’tis not my heart that showeth,
But the skilless tongue that soweth
Words unworthy of her graces.
Tongue, that hath me so betrayed,
Were my heart but here displayed,
Then were sung her fitting praises.

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Thought:

“Everything
Is Ignorant of its own emptiness—
Anger
Doesnt like to be reminded of fits—”

Jack Kerouac | “Mexico City Blues”

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