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Much of our lives can't be verified, the real abandoned from the imagined, stripped of its bluff. Much of it plowed under, shooed away. One night you dream you can sing in five languages but in the morning your native tongue is stooped, the simplest words have deserted you and there is evidence that your mouth was plundered, your tongue scuffed and battered where someone has picked the lock. Leaning against gravity hyphenates motion, and it's not your voice that breaks the falsetto. Conclusions are sometimes harder to construe in broad daylight.