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by John Surowiecki
I Our mower1 is young and broad-shouldered: so were we. Love confuses him as it once did us; the pain he feels he believes to be genuine. He even believes it to be pain. The tiny pink man from Verdun has shit his bed, the handless man scratches his face like a housecat, the mower mows2 and our grief is where it was. II We remember some things, but nothing so exact as form or color or disposition3. All day the wards4 are dark, while night wears paper shoes and speaks in insect languages. Its milky5 light is sticky and inescapable; it seals us up. Death is also a mower, but our mower doesn't know a thing about death. 点击收听单词发音
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