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These days here are the further mountains. The simpler truths. Hidden just above the darkness, like the deepest thermal-blue. Harvested softly, hands cautious, like the love-requiting flesh. Then quietly half-forgotten, like the european consonants.
And these hours here are daydreams gathered up by bees, cornered into pictures and stitched into our seams. these are the voices in our head, and our unrepentant fall. The holiness of absence, and the portraits on the wall. The momentary meteors of passing shouts from cars. An atmosphere of happiness against the nothingness-at-all. Our quiet-voiced defiance against some distant dying light. Our prayers still pulsing silent on the gathering tide of night.