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With fire fingers of flesh, he turned the golden key, unlocking his home; his church. Waves of light flooded his eyes and permeated his white beard, through him and out. He walked slowly, almost waltzed, in awe of the peacocks occupying the ancient pews. Their beards are of lime and cerulean, why not me? He reaches the altar and the starfish ushers him to take a seat on the ground. His salt skin and scales are of scarlet and violet, why not me? The hymns descended like clouds free falling from heaven and he heard the music of ships sailing the seas of organ tunes. An ant passed by his toes melting, bleeding, crying. Her red blood and green tears are of hue, why not me?

His wife stared deep into the photograph wondering about the camera capturing such a scene. He stood by her side wondering, too. This is of black and white, why not me?

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