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To Vladimir Orlov's previous piece
I Will Send My Message Collect I will send them all the torn-out copies of my last message collect, as I stand breathing in the sight of the frozen silver, its faulty light fettering the riverís glassy ice. My memory, in its inveterate longing to plunge into the sweet water of hope, is being thrown to the gusty summit where regiments of ghastly ghosts gather to perpetrate their ghoulish parade. Time rumbles down the bumpy street of my crumbling consciousness, as I am being effectively run down by its heavy cart which used to stop at my beck and call before, but which now will positively not, even if I vociferously plead with it. Days are being sipped out of me, with relish, by the subtle connoisseurs of the delicious wine of time and age. I will send them all the torn-out copies of my last message collect.
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