O my soul, seek not after immortal life, but exhaust the realm of the possible. Pindar, Pythics, III
[We are these spaces]
The hidden dead are well off in the dirt;
Warming them, it keeps their mystery dry.
Noon up above, noon without movement
In self-absorbed creation of yourself...
Perfected head and perfect diadem,
I am what's changing secretly in you.
[We are these spaces]
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