Needle

With the sand separating the hairs, the fishbowl is clearly uninterested in our fairy tales.
Let’s tell them anyway – force the story lines to collide and ignite and reside in the morning of mournings, in the shawls of the snow, in the wings of Siris and Alkonost. Let them carry our souls to the bowels of the earth, to the knots in the fur of the soft reveler.
We can bury them deep, in the womb of the stone, and sit back and watch it crack with the tearful lines.
Let’s be reborn.

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