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-48The Separation Of The Seasons I have begun to think of you as a pumpkin and that frightens me. I dread that there must be a cut, drying, green vine somewhere close by yearning. I know that this is way we used to sleep but I can’t lay my ear on your chest anymore because I will hear the faint wind moving the moist, fibrous strings and seeds aside. I think that one day, or maybe two, I won’t remember to look but when I do I’ll find your cheeks shrunken, more and deeper furrows around the cavities. If there were room for a candle it would be burning low. This season is too long. I wish for the chill of Winter for you. I cannot stand this long, drawn-out octobering. ...

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