It was beautiful and ancient and peeling. it was one day or a series of a thousand days slammed into one another, poking and prodding each other and looking for a way out. Looking for the way up. It was Easter and it was brotherhood and sisterhood and all the particles of the sunset swelling into each other, forming the great triangle of trickery and truth. It was today and it was yesterday and nothing I had to be proved could be proven in this language or that one. It was a day and a dream and the place in between the seams where the seemingness of it all swallows itself whole. It was wholly holy and withholding the hornet’s nest of hunger and time. It was buried at the base of the spine of time and it was trickling through the torturous air of anger. I have nothing to write about, it seems. It falls. 

and the truth is, i think about you all the time. in the space between the space between i think about you in forests of green and white i think about you and me dressed in snow and piling through our futurepast.

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