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This may be as close as some people ever come,
to a connection with another living being.
Life contains within itself a strange lack of perspicuity;
We are all strangers by default,
But become sworn enemies by contagion-
Like unknown varieties of some strange new weed,
Considered better left unidentified, and at a distance,
But thought rancorous and deep-seated, if found closer:
Something to be eradicated at the root,
Our grief only a minor wind, outside the tempest;
For all our souls are just holes,
That we never knew hope of filling.
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