There’s a cool web of language winds us in.. Retreat from too much joy or too much fear.. we grow sea-green at last and coldly die in brininess and volubility..
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Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,. How hot the scent is of the summer rose..
Drums are the most visceral of instruments. Tuned to our own heartbeats, shaking our blood, they are as immediate as sex.