Whisperings under lantern.

 

A god goads me from the wall, and around him pumpkins dance. Red apples shine from the slick wipe of a dishrag, stacked in symmetrical circles over a plate of ivory memories.

Children are fleshed out in our words, giving life to space which would otherwise remain motionless.  The patterns of letters and sounds coalesce into models of tranquility and chaos, transfixed with a key centrality which I have yet come to understand fully.

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