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January 12, 2018
I wake from a dream of damp leaves and dark soil. My bones are sleeping peacefully here, not in some city cemetery in coffins in stone vaults shoved up one against another. Here I am dirty, seeping into the soil, becoming trees and bugs. Here I enter a worm and crawl through the earth. I can hear the rain hitting the leaves, tree trunks, and the ground. There will be another human being here maybe once a century, and so I sleep, the deep drunken sleep of the happy pilgrim. I slowly wring my hands. A little finger falls off.