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72 IN BETWEEN In between is richest, the fallings, dusk, no word for the color of the sky, the sodden air dragging down day from light to blue, from motion to indifference, or to rue. Or like the slippery verge of love, the succulent stage before love asks for speech, no word for that sweet leap into need, or frenzy. Drowning, they say, your past compresses, passions and cravings compact into one dense ball, ineffable, a lifetime sucked into the in-between, the last fall from feeling into the embrace of cloud. ...

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