I will never stop missing the brushes with history. Who am I without towers and turrets and domes and basilicas? As it turns out, I have become a pilgrim.
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I will never stop missing the brushes with history. Who am I without towers and turrets and domes and basilicas? As it turns out, I have become a pilgrim.
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What is a graveyard if not the resting place of memories, sculpted into statuettes or set on simple slabs? What is a grave if not nature reclaiming recollection, as ivy creeps into inscriptions?
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We always were the sort to jump in at the deep end – and in these parts the Deep stretches as long and wide and glistening as our travel-worn eyes can see.
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When I first gave myself to you it wasn’t through desire, or even admiration. No, the first time you came blazing into my world like a comet, it was simply because you could see it.
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The glassy-eyed goddess who dwells in the basement, blue swirls on translucent skin.
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