oh, and when it comes to the great moment (the one that museum dinosaurs have whispered about in their rattling movie-theatre velvet ropes and golden knob stands) and i, standing on the edge of the ocean, mumble something about mermaids (eyes squinted mysteriously) before the great motion of trees and stormy june pulls me over, and everyone goes home full, riding on pasture sheep down the beach with the golden sun shining on the wool and human hair (leaving hapless hoof-prints in the green glow), i want to suddenly know the difference between the farcical and the beautiful and every tiny tragedy turning cartwheels in never-ever land
all in one long sentence
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