In the deep shelter of the pines, with the swollen eyes, tired sneakers, chipping nails, and a heavy head, we can still admit that filtering sunlight is nice, that the breeze is a warm one, and that the ripples on the water don’t seem threatening. This is concrete and satisfied and molten chocolate with the rotting pages of a miner’s passport. It’s like the dust doesn’t seem as oppressive and my mistakes don’t seem quite as cutting as before when they’re mingled in a bowl with strawberries. 


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