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Let me speak, he said, he is...
as real as earth, the dirt, he is,
with knife in hand, to throught, to slit,
himself if he could only live with it.

Let me be, he said, to see...
he is never unfinshed and never complete,
he doesn't move and never stays,
he flys in dreams and dies in days.

Let me write, he said, it's nice...
to be something that touches light,
not locked in cells of nerves and flesh,
sandless hourglass awaiting death.

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The following comments are for "The Ego"
by IlichVladikov

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