Who knows for what measure we are here, with breath to follow, by what grace? Sometimes the high conference of voices, assembled toward some contract with the spirit, declares less than a tree full of morning birds.. Worse, we license with pens what the tongue has no business attesting to., much less owning.
I do so enjoy having a stone as an object of the attention and love of another. I find freedom in that place. I kiss the daughter of the moon, once bright in full, yet lovely with a touch of darkness on her face.
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