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Cantatrice Misunderstanding. Misunderstanding, misunderstanding. Are we stationed here among another thing? Sometimes I wonder. After the lightning, this afternoon, came thunder: the natural world makes sense: cats hate water and love fish. Fish, plankton, bats' radar, the sense of fish who glide up the coast of South America and head for Gibraltar. How do they know it's there? We call this instinct by which we dream we know what instinct is, like misunderstanding. I was soft on a green girl once and we smiled across and married, childed. Never did we truly take in one burning wing. Henry flounders. What is the name of that fish? So better organized than we are oh. Sing to me that name, enchanter, sing!
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