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We are lost satellites,
Free from our white-collar shackles,
The suffocating warmth of our mothers’ milk.
Someday, we will burn in righteous fire,
Or drown in deep virtuous waters.
For now, we whirl. We turn.
We let the stinging cold kiss our skin,
The raging fire blister our perfection.
Tonight is a free night, a dancing night,
And worth every unspeakable transgression.
