Oh, yes, it's all instinctively quiet now. I've got to resign myself to the fact that reading and writing are two different things. I mean that I do write, and I might be read, but I am not being written to.
I would like to write those long eloping letters that would take me flying up high like an ecstatic kite in spring, weathering all sorts of cloud formations: the blistering, the callous, the insurgent. Embedded in the flight there might be answers to the riddles, to the shifts in time zones, trading new gifts for the keen and the young.
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