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Jim Morrison Blues Ah, I see the clay from which your feet were made has finally engulfed the rest of your body. No longer imperfect, you're an utter fucking wreck advertising your failure to every passerby. And oh, God, what I would give to be cold enough to feel smug about thisó or even apatheticó anything but this dreadful empathy teaching me with agony how close I really came I was always made of soil, after all.
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