THE WORLD IS MY
PHOTO-VOLTAIC CELL
And why the hell not I say, bring on the squeamish and
let them blanch. The operative doctor, with his wobbly
walking stick, is coming down the lane. He demands a
form of allegiance, yet he can't cure a thing. How like
God is that to me, I'll never say. Intensify the meanings,
and simplify the ends. There is nothing to what we think
we see - one puff of morning, one puff of day.
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