A slightest point, an unfathomable source and an inexplorable surface. Here and here, here again and here. Dense or light, dark or luminous, it doesn’t matter or it only just matters. Just here. Or everywhere. It is a heart pounding and bouncing, or resting and feeling. It pounds and feels incessantly. A heart of hearts. Shared and sharing incessantly, here now under the trees, acacias and planes and mulberries, up there, everywhere. The planes, enjoying space and water, are dropping leaves already, the acacias are observing tellingly and elegantly, the mulberries are of this and of another world entirely, touched by rather than puncturing the air, accumulating life not just living it, or so they let us think.
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