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March 30, 2015
I am careful here to be absolutely meaningless, to write the prize that goes behind the glassy swallowing beacons of imagination's flight. No matter what you write there is someone who will pick it up and wrestle it to the ground and read meaning into it. I am moving. I am water. I am Mother Earth. I bounce and those clouds are lined up between and above my feet. With care, I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach, tracing their rooflines. Oh look! I can blot out the sun!