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Who were you, Dmitri Young?
A soccer player, an adept baker?
No matter now,
you're dead then gone.

Who were you, Dmitri Young?
My hands are sour glass.
My eyes without liquid.
My life collapses into surreality.
Mother.

Who were you, Dmitri Young?
I miss the days when I could count
the ticks of a clock now they happen all at once
I'm lost in the weight of my understanding.

Who were you, Dmitri Young?
I'll ask it then, I've ask it now.
Without context, the bizarre is irrelevant.
Without you, strangeness is normal.

So who were you, Dmitri Young?
And why do you lay dead upon my floor?
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