I will get there some day
between the fibers of the soil, sifting through my memories
little piles of paper, neatly in rows with colored tabs on the edges, divisions of my time
the soft whisper of the wind blowing by my ear, dew wetting my lips
a script, sharp and machine-like, but organic on the inside, reminiscent of a human hand
prickly, poking it's way forward, page by page
progressive, strong and stable, never wearing thin
striving for equilibrium between what my existence really is and what I believe it to be
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