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Dear Reader,

this ticking of a kitchen timer,

this turning of a corner within single frames

a slow emergence

as a Golem out of Plato's cave

to turn into

a dendrite under a bed of moss

a new gripped friction of being spoken for

a new pulse


to leave humans behind

to listen

If you ever feel feral and just need a fucking second,

allow your eyes the freedom to focus on pollinators

allow the pollinators to tell you something

of purpose.

maybe means no

profound is effortless

As a lone chestnut tree,

unapologetically remembering,


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