Like a river coursing through pliant country, the past quickens as it nears, as if to pull me into its murky undertow. It laps on my flesh and seeps into my firmament, stirring up lost and dead things. Bones, tin cups, scraps of song, toys, feelings. It's the quality of light at this time of year, I tell myself, shivering: crepuscular, swarming with motes of smoke and dream.




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