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 The Thirsting Hours At night the little ones drown in their milky sleep. They slip beneath this life to swim in salty dreams. During those thirsting hours of eyelid flutter and finger twitch, they drift in the womb of memory. In the morning they surface again to the same grubby language, to the ashes of song crumbling from their lips. The children’s silted tongues turn the gritty cogs of story, return them only to the shores, to the water’s edge. ...

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