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Editing Instructions
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A Star Without Ears
When I sang to you and coyotes,
not caring if I was in tune,
I hoped you would hear my story,
and make me a little room.
Thirty-six cycles around,
and the star I sang to that night,
has given me not a sound,
illumined nary a sight.
Maybe that baby Nietzsche,
stumbled onto the finest point;
that a billion miseries matter
only to us on this rotating joint.
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