Don’t sleep, life. Don’t listen to muffled sounds. Accustomed to words that don’t hurt nor scrape ‒ words that lay mild, and soft, and warm, slightly on skin, like a shallow fluid unable to deepen itself, but longing to stilling into that womb where the shades shudder and dance, in their unseen newborn cosmos ‒ you know, the tide is coming, as the time whispering into breathes, and you won’t notice. Don’t lie to yourself: there isn’t a second body; your flesh is your home, and calling, and hope; a chance for communion. Truly your furrows are the moist beauty where desire may arise, uproariously, to explode at any moment. That’s the epiphany you’re are looking for: and will be overwhelming, as a written code inseparably coiled around your sins, a crave having the flavor of the earth.

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