| There were little colored pebbles on the path beneath our feet; small, tightly curled leaves. The hills that held the morning seemed ancient as the sun and philosophy the spine of the world. I was thrilled with dancing atoms and you with shaping states. I cut and spun and stabbed the air with short dark stubby fingers. You swirled and stroked and molded it with slender artist's hands. I spoke of visions. You sang about the dreamer being more important than the dream. When I began to analyze, you laughed and stuffed an olive in my mouth. |
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