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the · romance · of · the · century

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When we were little, we died of broken bones. All of our bones shattered inside us. They came out as dust through our mouths and ears. They came out as dust between our legs. They came out as dust through our pores. What was left in our bodies was connective tissue. We were filled with connective tissue that had nothing to connect. This was the cause of our deaths. We were buried on Cloud Top Hill. The funerals were neat and small and the wakes were dry. When we died, we came up to the top of Cloud Top Hill before our funerals. We could see all the layers of the worlds superimposed on one another. We could not pick out our world among them, but we could find pieces. We eventually saw our caskets; they shimmered in and out of being. We were glad, now, that our bones had come out. We were suppler, and in death we could exist without bones. Living people called us ghosts—the way we could fit through a keyhole. We could talk to each other. We were glad we had died together. We could see other people that died. We could talk to them, but everybody liked the people that they died with best. The cliques of the dead are somewhat like the cliques of the living, but they are less superficial.
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written by B. Brecht/K. Weill
performed by W.S. Burroughs
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It's good to hear your voice, you know it's been so long
If I don't get your call then everything goes wrong

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