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Sweeping the sky my hand glides as if it were a great bird, making nests in celestial limbs, or against some great, star precipice- Is this the secret of patterns, We search the infinite, to at last find a beginning within ourselves? |
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Sweeping the sky my hand glides as if it were a great bird, making nests in celestial limbs, or against some great, star precipice- Is this the secret of patterns, We search the infinite, to at last find a beginning within ourselves? |