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Last night as it rained,
I dreamed I was a child;

my parents were both sick—
I brought them tea and stew.

This morning on the road,
a man scowled as he weighed

a shard of broken glass—
he was a mystery.

Some things, we must infer;
some things, we’ll never know:

who is in our phones?
How did it come to this?
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