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36 Post The path to the deep wood glittered with spring, loose spangles of glow pocked the grass, and this light affixed to me. He smelled like whistling, the one who took down this story so as I collected leaves to touch into the veins of this again and again that keeps people at arm’s length, I also became the canopy of stone I hide under when the rain— This story was written onto old book pages, words marked over in black ink could deliver cold or the crosshatch of mathematics. It felt intelligent to the nodding owls silence had wrought from the forest Words like a well, they said. ...

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