"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


Bones they are trees, not enemies

And I collect their skin
Yes I need their bark
For my new kind of hide in my new kind of dark

For these fruits that we have grown have froze heavy on the vine
Winter brew is born from the temporal and rime
Yeah the thicket and the thistle cry: new kind of wild!
Drink up to new dead and new alive

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