salt from a mine named saint formed in cuts on my back. shuffled into a pot of boiling mead. the sun couldn't soon enough. wildflowers. there was something beneath the gravel. that rabbit eating clover. we were so close to the willow i could almost hear it rustle against your skin the air got warmer away from that body of water and those little fire staters.
this ticketful waxer waned, no, pained with starry stirrups. the lune aloft dreamily. i glowed and flew. i was a king on the throne, a tidal wave. aboard the equator i faced south listening to the waves in front of me and behind me. it is still, placid where i am, breeze making no wake of friction. i am neutral, i am at rest. the sun began to set. the sun to my right began to set, not over any land. it came in so quietly. i held delicate mauve and violet, pushed it up and over me. the electric orange following the sun diffused itself without steam. the blue marble floor i was sitting on now glow with darkness, absorbing it from the sky. the meeting of the horizon quickly disappeared into a film. beneath me whales pushed around in a drowse. they would call to each other. i could see every star ever created, moving lazily above me, sitting peacefully on a stagnant sea, well aware of the inaudible hum.
i am stone. i am a heathen.
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