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Inside, a shaft of sunlight stirs old memories to new life – shiva’s dance, john barleycorn – a faint October music rolling on and on. The snare drum snaps a cool cool beat-monk on his spidery keys, miles on his horn-in a blue room on a long gone day. The golden sands pile up, the palaces fall apart, night breaks in like a great black hole-somewhere far away someone makes the sign of a hand.
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