The little clock dings the night on the roof. It hurries toward the
mystery of luck. I don’t know where these things are hidden.
What is not behind is silence on the face of a plaque dividing the
barrel from the wall. They intend to propose a lower voice to
sing a voice higher.
That at night one’s life full of bits of wood is silent is passing
between the veins.
Much paint falls on the world indoors. You are finished hearing
through a filter where noise lends a sort of joy to your own clock.
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