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75 dead metaphOr: clOuds Reclined in a therapy of summer morning, fishing the mackerel sky for answers, is best avoided. No more wispy narratives of cirrus, no cumulus caravan rolling fast over static horizons. Trust this convective of water vapor is not your dead father’s mustache, aerial mattress, or deconstructing dragon. Merely traveling show of a billion crystals equally reflecting all visible wavelengths of light, aloft without premonition on currents of air and unrelated to your “clouded” disposition suddenly parted in serendipities of blue. Accept the science as a blessing, as when, one somber evening, a dark stratus of trouble nearly touches ground, same grassy spot, indeed, where you lay so dreamily, studying a cottony Tarot of fair future. The roar that’s surely coming, foretold in ominous green of cumulonimbus, sunlight fractured by ice, whole doomed world suddenly twisting, is not your problem, either. Take cover, relax. ...

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