I saw a jet fly past the moon like Santa Claus in the movies. My sensitivity to persecution means I never enjoyed E.T. Dead flowers are so perfect but they definitely make weird gifts. We love a mundane problem for once let’s all fix this. I’ve been receiving letters lately, myriad legible thoughts. The memories one stoked were buckets in a drought. There was one that irked me weirdly, yet another, simply sweet. You’ll never make it up that boulder if you can’t trust your feet. The plums are tumbling out the tree. The garden’s overgrown. There’s nothing for their suffering but to offer up a kind of home. Collective energy is everything, so is being held. There’s nothing like community, there’s nothing like oneself.

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