dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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It’s August, at last, by surprise, or right on time, wild blueberries making it to the Farmers’ Market; Stephen Standing Owl on the Native American flute playing Winged Ones Rejoice in the background; while I still can’t get the light of Thursday’s early-morning commute out of my head, nor the contrast of Friday’s fog. It must be that virgin time of day filled with innocence, few errors yet committed. A brutally beautiful red horizon long before sunrise Thursday extending free time before work, & the next day’s fog at various heights & thicknesses into which one could get lost, or for seconds at a time, escape.



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