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He's not home - he bought a horse and they make mud laugh somewhere.
In Mexico: he's snowing the opossums: because smugglers allegedly couldn't be more natural.
He is translating from the mother-in-law's tongues.
With pilotfish: and dolphins: he's accompanying himself on guitar.
and when he is bored with something - he'll dribble away with kangaroos soon.
When I give him the book: "Make from paper" - he'll lease a hillside.
He'll climb on the birch: and shout to wind: "See?! - Now I'm combing in the vast 
                                                                - If you want to silence me
                                                                      - mix me in to that flock
                                                                            - or blow me into that flamingoes
                                                                                  - we'll strike against twilight."
He's the fakir: who sleeps on rum-spitzens.
He speaks quickly - he's galloping as obsessed - because obsession: he says: is the only quick antidote to any fear.
It's him: who loves the spirals - he's creeΠng around the circumferences of their circles.
He's waking up small - 
when the dawn is demoting the last sleepy sergeants: little Pete is waking up
and old fridge welcomes him with water stickers: "I would glad to play: but I lost the cubes somewhere."
It's him - uran - far away in the rings - forever petrified while jumping through the hoop -
    It's him - who just say: "If I would want the sphinx: I will address her with broken hieroglyphs."