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⠀⠀⠀⠀⡏⢢⡁⠂⠤⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀ ⠤⠐⢈⡔⢹
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡀⠙⠆⠀⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠀⠰⠋⢀⡿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢷⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⡾⠁
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢹
⣰⠊⠉⠉⠉⡇⠀⠢⣤⣄⠀⠀ ⣠⣤⠔⠀⢸
⠙⠓⠒⢦⠀⠱⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠎
⠀⠀⠀⠀⡇⠀⠀⠏⠑⠒⠀⠉⠀⠒⠊⠹
⡎⠉⢹⠀⠙⡶⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⢦⠀⠀⡏⠉⢱
⢧⡈⠛⠉⠉⠀⠀⣠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⣄⠀⠉⠉⠋⢁⡼
⠀⢉⣿⠖⠚⠛⢋⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀⡙⠛⠓⠲⣿⣄
⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⡞⠁⠈⡃⠀⠀⠀⠀⢘⠁⠈⢳⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇
⠀⠈⢷⣄⠀⠀⠙⠦⠌⠑⠢⠤⠔⠊⠁⢠⠎⠀⠀⣠⡾⠁
⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⠲⠤⣤⣀⣀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣚⣡⠤⠖⠛⠁
No more i like to add them, so, I want to die
And I want to become a holy ghost
Whom the people would like the most.
The lip feel cold.
The Autumn wind.
-Matsuo Basho
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells …
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