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And here I want to note that language is imagined to be all mixed
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up with the material of the world.
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And, if you look on page 85, you can see one example of this.
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(Oops. Sorry. I think that's not the--
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Sorry. Yes, this is the one I want.)
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I remember Sylvie walking through the house with a scarf tied
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around her hair, carrying a broom.
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Yet this was the time that leaves began to gather in the corners.
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There were leaves that had been through the winter,
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some of them worn to a net of veins.
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There were scraps of paper among them, crisp and strained from their
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mingling in the cold brown liquors of decay and regeneration,