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ca. 1995



The voice is white hot and the wind is full of ashes. You stood on the precipice of your Self, in the white ashes. All your achievements were gathered into the core of fire and the eyes bearing down the celebration of the burning tree. You looked up into the heat which creased the sky. Autumn gathered in the ashes of the earth around you and the stones turned red. You were braised in the hearth which you Yourself had built.