March 4, 2010
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I have plucked on this bank for a time. I wish I knew how long, and how much longer must pluck, for my fingers ache. They are calloused and bruised. Oh, sweet, silent river, echo my music from here into the blue mountains. Help to save me from this stone shore.

Young sir, I have flown from ice to air and back for longer than you sentence here. I know the ways of distance paths and the sound of culture’s song. But here I am, as damned as you, unmovable from this ripple. I cannot save you, for I am stuck. I dare not breathe another sin.

What was your first? Love was mine. She basked in my melodies and back into her royal chair. Then spoke my name in her dream. I am puzzled not to see her here.

I swelled and ebbed my last wave when I defied the track of time. How long have you been strumming?

I wish I knew.

As do I.

Hush, you both.

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