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AUTOBIOGRAPHY first I died then I made a breakfast of oranges and the joints of lambs I stepped out into my new world it was the old world too the capital city of sorrow where people lie to each other every day and the stones of the houses crumble to dust at night their river cuts through from past to more distant past it is a street they ride sadly without oars or an idea of oars I reached childhood I was alone I decided not to cry I had no mouth and my feet always stumbled
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