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Without the catch on, a jostle
Of the gym sack will trip
The walkman into playing—trees,
Whole forests tearing to the earth, and not a sound.
The fruits of music play aloud with no one to hear
And play at peak pitch, draining all resource,
All essence, all power,
Found hot and dead within the hour,
A swansong to no one.
Note my voltage spent with no audience:
Who will find me so hidden?
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