The seriousness of age is caught in the right, the opinion unclouded. All knowledge makes use of experience, inferior to the treasure of richness. The left surpasses the image of the other side, far from what has been and what is, the centre of the lemniscate joins the momentary. Far from every word's reason, the mischievousness of wisdom realises being, destroying all use. That foreboding indulges late in the work of doing, the pleasure of the degenerate way. Distance dwells in play's show, degenerating in the eternal.
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