Everything in it is pleasant to look at and painful to think about. We forget there was a time before The Departed. Do what you can to flee to that Lotos-land, where heroin frenzies, maudlin pledges of true love aboard boats, despotic French kings, and brogueless half-Irish mutts languish in their beds of amaranth and moly:"Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean"
Island and leaf and little memory, and we will live and lie reclined on the hills like gods together. Take this flower: you will not wander more.
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