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When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. “You too sing?” he asked. “I’m not so sure. The Night-Cellar. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. I—well, I lost my temper.
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