Shame of mind's care adds to the splendour of the imposed in deception senses. All panting for glory's pride restrains the yearningly satisfied splendour of that hoped-for life whose imitation it bestows. The light of one's own is stifled, suffocated in the wrath of the obstructive world. Every glance from superficiality touches, reaches the reward of toil, carried away all those who are interested in the same. Fulfilment calls itself the word of striving, gathered in experience spell, paving the way for a night's work. Seeing all imitation in itself, the outer appearance of the behind fades to the ahead, the stream of life sees the end. Broken in the sea of the many, the trail of the quiet few is adorned by the country paths, whose having is subject to being.
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