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The sound of light hitting rough against the hillside. I am fond of this town, spinning out in a loom of rain and sun, all its shining green threads the way one is fond of a mountain on Mars. That strange, sideways love, found in the word ‘someday’ and in ‘used to.’ The red dust and the trumpet of light, and there, there, suddenly there the motes of humanity. |
the crackle of rays as they stroke the treetops and shatter the stars that melt like rain slithering down like a mirrored reflection of a glacial collapse before a brilliant day Just my thoughts on yours. | Posted on 2016-11-11 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ] | |