"Loving and liking are the solace of life,"
Wrote Dorothy Wordsworth, addicted sister.
Nature always betrays the mind that loves her.
If one could parlay the dire gifts of words
Into the transubstantiation of flesh
So that one could leave with the gifts, nothing left,
But the gifts run off and into other minds
Or sit stupidly, inky bits and pieces.
The world continues to do what it pleases,
And it pleases the raw world to deceive us.
We love, we like, we find solace in the air.
We believe that we existed. We weren't there.
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