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Excerpt from the Secret Diary of Hillary Clinton

Today I looked at the moss growing on the old tree by the farm and wondered, is my true name not moss?  For I am not as strong as the tree, or as utile as the farm, but I am more ancient than either, humble, and harder to destroy.  And yet I feel I am in contact with twin immensities — the eternity of the already elapsed, and the eternity of what is till to be.  But what am I?  An infinitesimal membrane stretched tight between these two eternities.  And yet, despite all this, lurking behind all my metaphors is the single beat, fragile, erring and unavoidable…my womanly heart.

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