I'm lying in bed, in my mother's house, in Pine. The mattress is springy, the pillow soft, the window open. The locusts sing to me but my eyes are closed. Closed so that I may hear every rustle, every croak, every note drenched in moonlight and folded in earthy rich hues. So that I may tuck it safely away in my soul as a token of this night of peace. It may be a long time before I find such solace in the night.
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