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46 IsoLatIon Inside a darkly draped room with a split-second view of sky’s limitless blue flower, the mind carries the rarity of May’s snow flint with it. No other nearness, accompaniment, or conspiracy of two against the world for the world’s sake. No more up-holding one end of some stick, no measuring— just the continuous writ of day, wind in the broken cloud, current of trust, the heart’s first and on-going. ...

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