how easily these
days spent in reverie
will turn to
decades of memory
such things are
best left ignored, as
some pages are
best left unturned, as
some dreams are
best left behind
And these, my hands,
which together form a dolphin,
or on their own, become
a crow, beneath a
red-hot sun, or
a line that
traces
back to its source,
as all things do
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