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Two-thirds of my personal mass is devoted to finding a mate.

My flavour is rare, heavy, and subject to decay.

I despair of matches.

Although I founder in the thickened, milky substance of my being

I know that I was made this way on purpose.

Whose purpose

I am not at liberty to say.

My quality does not admit of imitation.

I accept no substitutes,

Especially not of the up, down, and certainly not strange variety.

Strange for the sake of strangeness?

Idiot show-off.

I am of the second generation.

Living in the middle of ordinary reality

Bohrs me.

Diagram showing what a neutrino is

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