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  • Sometimes the melancholy gives nothing but relief. As if gold by outlook and design. The way that words and water dress us anxiously in repose. No daughter of mine should ever have to walk so.

    I have nothing but contempt for you, oh god that turned the world so disorderly. Who could not see the way the Moon beckoned and held us fast or that the Sun could keep us all from harm. No set of elephants resting upon the backs of tortoises would have cruelly killed such kindness. But you, robed by men, armed in history and vengeful by blackened prose, stole and gobbled up the children of us all.

    Other times the melancholy is a disarmed friend, turned wisdom and peace by lazy summer picnics and good toil. Then she does not bow to gods of this earths making. Remembering in insignificance, the universes other tales. Of light, and travel and how we are all equal. In carbon, in diamond, in faith and star dust.
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