Her face at three-thirty in the morning is a mysterious page of determination and heart-driven sorrow. Her hands are the scorched music of other faces now grown bone-blue from the small-town life, a life that is now street maps hammering in moondeath. Yes, there is a pattern in this thunder, momentum to the shadow I speak (true even in a night tasting of smoke), and a physical eloquence to the breeze beginning in secret stone passageways. The green lamp of silence shines an excellent distance before saying goodnight. Children of nature circle the colonial village bell.

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