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Blond dancer boy, How you move in Act I. Your body concaves on itself, Whenever the composer wills you to do so. Blond dancer boy, I left someone with hope for you.
There it is The Door. You know the one You pass it every single day This time, though You stop and look Just briefly
"Lucy, Lucy, No." She whispers to her hands. She cries to the company. We stare, curiously, judgementally.