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In the basement all the bus are my friends, and the spiders watch over my blood with their webs. In the basement all the bugs are my friends and they walk, and they talk, and they crawl on me. In the basement I can give up the moment the day starts and get high, and stare at the TV, and my purpose relies on a button I press to pretend that I am not me. It’s a full-time job as a world class slob. I’m the only one who does it this well. In the basement slowly turning to cigarette ash. This body adapts to surroundings.
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