Dont pluck the stings of the zither, since its sounds are so lonely and plaintive. Heaven never grows old, nor will human love be ended. My heart is a cobweb doubled over, tied and knotted with a million frets. The night is nearly over, the lamp has burnt out, the day hasn't broken yet. The handsome man, pure thought, bald double chin, photographs don't P, all of you, and let the midlife crisis.
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