Why Am I So Lovely? Because My Master Washes Me.
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At twilight, those who play in the water touch the moon on its waves.
In bed, those who lay on the covers hallucinate their existence.
A conversation with the slave who fought to save the work from a fire.
At midnight, those who play in the dust grasp the wind by its hair.
In emptiness, those who die drain their bodies into a bowl left beside the bed.
At dawn, the tree that still grows gropes the world with its leaves.