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Words open up our visceral knowing. This knowing that occasional seeps to the surface from our dreams. These feelings and perceptions linger, shaping our days, in unknowing ways.

Your writing, like a dream to read, from a heart of experiences, resonates through my own landscape of memories.

Words, those signs and symbols, those sticks and stones on the shore line, gathered arranged in different ways on different days to evoke memories in different ways. Magic.

These words, our magic, our memories, our feelings, deep, seeping to the surface, slowly, like a sigh,

and, I could say, into the sky.

and, I could say, words can be like a touch, something to hold onto when all our things are floating away.

The guy here, at the hotel, has just given me another cup of coffee, he says my earlier coffee was a fake, this one is real. Nice.

A young kid, around eight or nine years old, asks her dad "daddy, why can't we play here", her dad carries on sorting out something on his iPhone, maybe organising a cab to take them to the airport.

These days, not fade away, with our words, worries and wonder, and now, to wander.

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