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  • I can see the past enshrouded in the foggy isle.

    There I am, in that tree, ten branches up and eight years old, gazing out into the horizon line where the ocean and sky cancel each other into the oblivion of the earths’ curvature.

    And there, there I am, on the rocks down below this path.
    My younger self crouched over a tide pool, holding the beating heart of a dying fish in my hands.
    A young hunter imitating a pagan ritual, I unconsciously make a sacrifice to my land.

    Hermit crabs tickle my feet in the cold water.
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