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The tide is full, singing is an evening cicada. In the darkness of a well, I find a face of myself. At night a murder was there, the appearance of flowing water. A crow flied away, holding its tongue.
The tide is full, singing is an evening cicada.
In the darkness of a well, I find a face of myself.
At night a murder was there, the appearance of flowing water.
A crow flied away, holding its tongue.
..