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*My father's favourite line from a Western fillum, spoken by a cowboy kneeling over a dead body which had the cause of death sticking prominently out of his chest.
I'd rather spend 90 minutes sticking sharp objects in my eyes....
"...the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices..."
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