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The wandering stranger a**aults you with guilt, not with guile. The spoken word, spurious. It likely wouldn’t push one to sway. With doubtful experience, it plotted us a path that wound back again. The halls are cavernous and twist the sound as bait. Quickly drawn away, open jaw. Dig the hook inside while we bray. Now the horns’ blows have carried away and we’re remorseful for the call. When the very life of you is swept away and reverent then what worth have you? The air we breathe is the air we’ll be bellowing. How loud claps the storm? What fury will we swallow away?