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What is in the middle of nowhere?
You might accuse someone living with a stolen identity of being this.
They come to witness the night without being called, a sailor's guide and a poet's tears. They are lost to the sight each day without the hand of a thief.
What is always coming every day, but never arrives until the next?
From house to house I go, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide. And whether there’s rain or snow I always stay outside. What am I?
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