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I woke at intervals until . . . the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not.
— Annie Dillard
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The wind is awake, pretty leave, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says, he deceives, he deceives; Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too). He will be lisping and pledging to you.
— John Vance Cheney
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