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Notes on the Hereafter No matter if birds invented clouds or vice-versa. The sure jolt is that the unlovely young: daughters-in-law, road musicians, some nephews-- will outlive us. All our howling about fair? Unheard. Private conundrums? Still obscure. Who cares? They're here. We're gone to some cumulus throne to survey how he still pokes in his nose, to disdain her puny red-eye gravy. At closing time, we find that no one's keeping score of flaws or our good will, both weightless then as feathers on the Lethe.
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