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48 not falling, not fallen Why can’t the snow just be pretty, floating aimlessly in the winter sun? The way it drifts reminds you of lint, not flakes but filament, fuzzy detritus of some infinite shroud. You used to tell him you’d made your own religion, stitched it like the girls who sat through lectures with knitting needles and balls of yarn. It was unfinished, imperfect— he didn’t have to believe in it, exactly— but you wanted to give him that fabric not ever through losing threads of itself, not torn, not whole, not pure or not-pure, not falling, not fallen, not exactly. ...

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