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azrael17
Mayakovsky

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting and modern. The country is gray and brown and white and trees. Snows and skies of laughter are always diminishing. Less funny, not just darker. Not just gray. It may be the coldest day of the year. What does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again
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