Sometimes I close my eyes for a long time. Crushed body of the milk snake remembered, dogs gone on ahead to where the trails are dim and misty. Eden comes to grief, grief to salvation, salvation to what we cannot say and anyway don't need to. Those nineteenth century headstones appear in dreams so often you can no longer call it coincidence. What kind of day do you want and what kind of day can you offer? I'd rather commune than commingle. Apple tree coming down limb by limb in rain storms and passing winds, speaking consistently of sinlessness and love. Hopefully I'll no longer need to begin sentences with the phrase "in a sense" again. Holding hands watching Don't Look Back, looking neither forward nor back but merely outward, at a bright light obscuring the truth. We travel and our traveling includes an evolving understanding of what narrative is (it is also a form of traveling). But what is family and why are meals. Lost and lonely in the only morning ever.
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