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It's the turning back. It ain't no luck in turning back.
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I give her my word. She's accounting on it.
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The dark current runs.
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Talks up to us in a murmur
-
become ceaseless and myriad.
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Fading swirls move along the surface for an instant
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silent, impermanent
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profoundly significant
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as though something just beneath the surface
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huge and alive
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was waked for a moment.
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I reckon we're still on the road.