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December 2, 2024

Heart mine, art mine, whose embraces
Clasp but wind that past thee bloweth
E’en this air so subtly gloweth,
Guerdoned by thy sun-gold traces,
That my heart is half afraid
For the fragrance on him laid;
Even so love’s might amazes!

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Thought:

“Time isn’t made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.”

Anne Carson

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