Blurt

In the end there's silence. In the beginning too. In the middle there's the stars, the (never) wrong note, the abyss, the boxcar door ajar from where you can see yourself in the boxcar. What is there can grasp you, what is not you did. In this dance you can tip toe, you can whisper. You can stomp and you can run. Your ears will draw maps for you, but you won't follow them blindly, because maps are made of what has already been discovered, and you'll leave that for when rest is needed. It doesn't have to be all too serious. There is room for conversation. The muses are in the same boat you are. Only they've been around longer and therefore it is wise to listen to them. Only then you

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