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Sanctus again: the avalanche

— Benjamin McPherson Ficklin

I remember walking into a bar, here in the Overlook neighborhood & seeing her sitting, leaning across the counter like a crystal ball or scythe, a portend in purple: irresistible. & I was invited, & we spoke of tenderness & the work we share, other words we share, somehow brutal & soft, a towering mage from the void in a cloak of life & death. & to be so trusting of me, to be so beautiful: moonlight wisdom growing nocturnal plants on a barren plain, all grayscale, until she marches before a wake of blooming crocuses, until she kisses your temple: a one-thousand-foot-tall tree covered in tiny pink flowers—lavender flowers—maroon flowers—flowers of rain & ichor, dissolving, petals floating up to the stars. & we filled her room with smoke that first night.


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