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Hold me, she said, will you please hold me?

She got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all over.

I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: 

hatred, centuries deep and true.

I was wrong and graceless and sick. 

All the things I had learned had been wasted.

There was no creature living as foul as I 

and all my poems were

false.

Charles Bukowski, from I’m In Love