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VermontI was the westonce. I was paradise.My beauty ruined me: the oldexcuse. Perhapsif I was rich, remoteor fine—but paradiseis always justtoo close, too coarse.Men made me;though in memory they seemmore steel thanflesh, more copperthan intelligence or whim, ambition, will—what makes men, anyway? Alwaysgroaning on the far endof some lever, sharpening some blade.If I were farther, Jupiteror Babylon, the oceanbottom, I10