God bless the dead and all their sounds. Cream paws pressing on bright white ground clouds like cookie sheet flour. Forever a rain-stick being flipped or a stream flowing slowly. That deep smell of life lifting up and in. How can nature be so cruel yet so inviting? How can being alone feel so fulfilling? Why do we lip at attention so quickly? God bless the dead and all their sounds. Not too loud and not too quiet. Steps leveled, and a stomach of water and bile. The sun so high it looks close. Squinting at the sky with glee cheeks. With long breaths. God bless the dead and all their sounds.
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