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| Time is the trick, to cast you in moments of intensity from the conveyor belt to the whirlpool below. You are wet with spray from the discarded moments that nobody desires because they are your own (to each his own time) and you stare up at the people in their little boxes or cradles or coffins jerking rhythmically along clackety-clack, being attended and processed, wrapped and delivered by Time. And priced. The cost is too high. And there are rainbows in the air where the water falls. | ||
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