Is there any other way to come home? Divesting ourselves of accumulated foam, returning to believing. Not in anything, just believing. Believing the land. All the fears it raises to be small, to leave yourself vulnerable and tide-exposed. Where yet, somehow, all the world suddenly bears that same countenance, suddenly always has. Cliffs born in the end of rain, ocean from a rift in the sky. Brings me shpilkes, it does. Good shpilkes, and a fork to eat it with.
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