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July 16, 2016
It could be anything. You feel it coming. You feel it going. The floor is heaving. We are breathing through its heft. It moves up and down, this thing. We feel it on the ceiling. We feel it on the walls. This thing. This mystery. It moves ever so slowly, ever so certain of nothing. That's it's power. There's nothing to be done that might gather this mystery up. We fall down to the mystery. We say we love mysteries, but we keep clear of its fevers. We'd like nothing more than to drown in its certain death. Funny children.