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“Feed me punctured pears, bruised figs, and bleeding pomegranate- the kind that have fallen from the groves; the kind that are most ripe. Waking up at a quiet hour ; sharing a moment with a swaying palm. The fragile wings of a bee, found in a jar of honey. The vowels in the word ‘poetry.’  I am the moon pursuing the sun. The paradox of perfection is that it’s imperfection and if that isn’t beautiful, I don’t know what is.”

-The Linguist

 

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