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You never listened to a single word I told you. You never do. You're too busy describing to me in detail what I, like the landscape, am like and how. And how I, like the mountain, can be seen from many views. All of them incidently yours. I tell you what I'm never to do with you. I'm sorry my eyes are porcelain blue. And how. The words are lost kites. The words are discarded newspapers blowing around the railway station like unwanted spectators. Tell me again. Tell me again what I'm like and what I like. And how. You always do.