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I hear your words, and they’re coming out of my mouth.
Twenty years long gone, and still you’re there,
Like a spiritual ventriloquist, your hand up my shirt, waving my arms, nodding my head.
I am but and automaton,
Stumbling and groping at free will,
Clinging to the illusion that I am not but an echo of all that has come before.
This is the song that does not end…
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