The book;

The book is a desperate friend.
A Villain,
a product of intoxicating this clumsy, broken vase.
The sad coals, smoldering
in the hearth of this old man's body, weighed down like lead
against the tides of rationalization.

Nothing drinks colder than a detached, ironist's laugh.

Our mind, together, remembers the heart.
So it pays its tithes,
and "doth" revives,
the stumbling...

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