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58 The souls we carry hunger for our light. They who feel unfortunate close in on the fields, convene around happiness. They hear the sound of it like laughter, on roads, through rain-blurred trees, the smell of it boiled through bones and cartilage, the taste of earth deep and darkly rooted. Drawn to those sleeping skin to skin, they shiver, wanting fur, wanting in, the closeness of animals sharing heat, sharing fire. They want to be let back in. The muscular ache of the man splitting wood, the muscular ache of the woman tidying the beds of messy children, brings desire for tenderness so intense they would gladly return home to houses that indifferently bred them. The souls we carry hunger for our light, the music of that open door calling them as they thrash through realms of enslavement thick as honey. It’s the first bite of sweetness they crave, and the last. Gathered around the kitchen table � The Souls We Carry Hunger for Our Light 59 they thrill to the clamoring. They remember the woman sighing, opening her blouse, and the man cutting into pieces small mouthfuls of his own sweet cake. ...

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