ccn An ambient moth on the bench dimly lit by blinking fireflies, on a trip to the golden cherry.
eric wistful, everything's so wistful, or I am and everything is as always. but how can the light be so gentle and not recall a thousand ghosts? how can the winter beckon in july and I fall foward into it, more familiar than family
eric every time unworlded and reworlded everything's a bit less
eric i used to find a lot of solace in this thing
eric a separation at the beginning of time, or the calcified ghosts, moon-sized, collapsing into the earth
eric so much rooted in an unwanted paradigm
eric picking up shells to use as bracing against what will tear us away
eric everything became various distant rattling sounds and colored lights/shapes, there is also nothing and nothing is more interesting
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