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Metta
It is the scent of my own neshamah: Thai tea, that one tree, the subtle smoke, your hair. It is the smell of my own perfection to be that draws me in and makes me weak. It is... More »
Metta
I want to speak in metaphors about the warmth that opens us all [but it has all been said before] the purple crocus resurrection and how tree fingers are splayed, ready to burst [you see... More »
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