In your early years you would dally playfully with solitude, speaking to it in your second person. Fluorescent words crawled a child’s mind that meant nothing to body or ghost.

Words were a solitude, the very shadow that followed your little boy in serial trail of doubts of whether it was this or that, shadow or dust.

There is no shadow of dust, only shadow in dust.The afternoon shadow rises and wanders to the horizon to disappear in the hills as in a picture frame, from a mind that will be dust, steeped in words that will soon be dust in the shadows of words.


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