OUR OWN HAT
Gentle, the mystique, the clamoring joys of both
a Spring and a Summer. The holy rivers run as
they may - backwards tomorrow and forwards
today. I second guess nothing. If our own hat no
longer fits our own heads, what then shall we
wear? The more forceful attire of some mediocre
king seeking solace in the tweeds of an oak-stained
ring? The holy voice of some chowder-pot chanting?
No, we must find the hat which fits, and wear that alone.
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