Touching the stone is easy but I am all alone tonight, and many thoughts assail me. I struggle to balance happy ones and lonely ones. I am not made just of those things. Within loneliness is freedom, release, unbinding, I'm sure, and yet I am not there. I look for companionship with the stone, and instead see a hundred kinds of touch that might make a warm library flutter away in the cold wind. I drift. I must go with the wind on waves with what I am made of.
Practice is a lighthouse that is sometimes not seen. I can feel it when I touch without writing a story about where I am going.
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