If you look you will notice trees growing, softly expanding into space. I find a handmade ceramic turtle at the take-it-or-leave-it shed, I take it, I am all in on turtles, I always have been. How in the middle of the night one wakens and decides to go to sleep again. Making love on marble, slaughtering pigs on marble, arguing about the nature of reality on marble. The ghost of Socrates alive in each of us. Fallen maple leaves so dense not a single blade of grass is visible. We meet in the garden to discuss the final harvest, and agree the flowers must all be allowed to remain, for however deeply we are lost in October, the bees are with us still. Imagine no longer relegating madness to the attic anymore. These bodies are like churches, political movements, like history even. Narrative is a container into which we pour and out of which we spill. All the dead, they wrap around me like a blanket.
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