As of some date in the near past, a mysterious chasm within is hollowed out and without ceremony, empties a tradition of certainty. It’s a tragedy no one speaks about in laymen terms, a weeping that grieves its own amplitude.

Freedom has a master, and he is a merchant who suffers with the task of separating eyelashes, excavating vision, and reselling it on the black market for pennies on the dollar. Those who find themselves hoarding convention do so at the bequest of hope, confusing spending power with the capacity of Peace.

I’ve spoken of both, and have written many a word hoping to encourage or inspire others with tales of their fragrant gardens and secret caresses. But I weep on grounds where soil has forgotten creation, where the atmosphere of combat evokes within an incantation counter to the sweetness offered in the hollowed cheeks of a heart’s struggling smile.

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