Eric C. Hayward Untitled Volcanoes are fingerprints of the first fire and so, too, every being harbors a secret tornado; is only ashes spun together to make forms who believe they are whole; This morning's walking meditation was to play Every red stone on this footbridge is lava; soon, Monkey Man showed up on my Discover Weekly playlist, and later I was arrested by the violent, sweet, slightly rot smell of honeysuckle: Everything happens in the woods. Everything that happens, happens in the woods.
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