despite all our desperate, eternal attempts to separate, contain and mend, categories always leak.
you and I are close, we intertwine; you may stand on the other side of the hill once in awhile, but you may also be me while remaining what you are and what I am not.
It Went By Me something very beautiful just went by me something not to tell in words in feelings so fragile so wild something yet to tell is no longer why and when it left i can't tell.
Home for the exile in a secular and contingent world is always provisional
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