| Logbook.
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| Up here, in this part of the sky, each nerve transmits sounds.
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| Dimensional space is cancelled,
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| and there’s no interruption in its purity.
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| The desert is nothing, now…
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| There are no falling sleeves, here,
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| no day reminds of another,
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| as no instant is similar to another.
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| No life crosses any other lives, and never will do…
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| as every being has been conceived for a sole aim,
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| and is held in a page apart.
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| Lunar vista is a source into oblivion,
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| It shines with a light which is not comparable to any possible atmosphere,
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| simply, with refinement.
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| Chill and dream both become questions,
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| There’s no breath any longer and the eyes will remain shut.
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| Here stars don’t belong to any painter’s poor vision
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| and every entity is comparable withi infinity.
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| Thought analyses itself on diagrams of everlasting light
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| and heaven loses its borders. |