The Pilgrim’s Progress

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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Without a City Wall

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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