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I write to the mountains.

I write to the mountains, they listen and see.

And say nothing.

 

I speak my mind – one lost since birth and hopes in waiting to find its way through the maze in death.

I speak my mind but it does not speak me.

It abstains from words – those which slice through our hearts so that we bleed forever but never die.

It abstains from thoughts – those which haunt us at day as shards of morning sickness, at night as dying stars; terminal cases of despair.

It abstains from life – that which does not kill us, makes us blind.

 

And so I write.

To the mountains…

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