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I walked on stones that lie across the ground this morning. Fallen leaves curling, green to yellow to brown. A page in my notebook, bleached, waiting. The first mark, a curve, which curves back on itself, the shape is like this - S. My pen draws a line out of the night. Beneath the surface of thought, not deep, not old, not ancient. Decaying. Walking on stones lightly, a world apprehended and not seen. I glimpse a glint, high above, far away, the fire, energy, a mirror. I look back, another page, notes, from the end of a day. From the night a fire appears over the horizon. I drink some water, finish my coffee. A resonance. The words in themselves seem to only say what they say, I think they need a voice. I listened to a song, the lyrics I know, a little, the words, transformed by the voice, the tone of voice, and the sound of an instrument accompanying the voice, a mandolin, an accordion, in the background, a rhythm. Everything goes around and around, changes, imperceptible, apprehended, unseen. Appearance, a surface, a stone, to stand on, to step on, the movement, from one to the next, knowing your toes are connected to your nose, a wobble, wings, these arms, hands, fingers, a balance. A flight, through the night, into dawn, and that fire, on the horizon, that moon, a mirror, a chill breeze, my nose, a dampness, dew. Cycling, rhythms, changes, atmosphere. Another coffee, 07:57. A song, fire, rain. I hesitate, listening.

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