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Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. . . . His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.
I've always liked how A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce opens, I think because it's loaded with details that leave me with questions.
You might put this one in your final category.
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Somehow this reminds me of the Red Wheelbarrow poem by William Carlo Williams
so much depends upon
a red wheel barrow
glazed with rain water
beside the white chickens
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