when the world's frail, light cloth falls upon the tent pole center of itself while camping in the Southwestern desert maybe a handful of tiny piñóns for shade -- is there any wonder? is there any wonder that the poets and artists are hopelessly dreaming of a world of bamboo rafts a system of currency involving meticulous sea shells? square nails rusty -- you remember those? i have a photograph paid for in blood -- worth nothing
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never tiring of your Mind and what it attracts.
you penetrate more deeply and with more color than ever.