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In the beginning is the ending is always the middle is floating forever ever never in all there where who can tell is anywhere is not imagining all of it, bits of ego, id and libid o such as we supposing symphonies of orbiting cellos playing the music, an
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Pinnacles
State Park
lying on our backs
stoned on hash
around a campfire
looking up at the
clear see-through
blue green stars
to the other side
of the universe
I know now
you are out there
I float up to
within 2
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Look out your window and know that the universe conspired to craft the sunrise for your morning tea, the mug clasped in hand, the light bouncing from the balcony railing. The empty seat next to you will always be filled
and I will never properly thank y
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Unless we see it, probe it,
Name it, star by star, and feel
This awful, tenuous gratitude.
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