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on Apr 15th 2000, 11:28:46, Groggy groove wrote the following about

Sound

For everything there is a season. But there is the dream of a season past all seasons. In such a dream the wild-grape cluster, high-hung, exposed in the gold light, unripening, ripens.
Stained, the lip with wetness gleams. I see your lip, undrying, gleam in the bright wind.

I cannot hear the sound of that wind.
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