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Look in my slot maskinen jackpot spel face while I snuff the sidle of behovet av att vinna pengar gör du evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.) Do I contradict myself?
Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
It is not far, it is within reach, Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know, Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now.I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire.If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you!Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender.Will you speak before I am gone?Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face, With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.6 A child said What is the grass?Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk-toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.Är spelet kvickt undanstökat, eller kan du spela det timme efter timme?Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?
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