letter no 20, op 35

It hurts not to move. Muscles tear from inside out, crumbling into aches, leaving the body like chipped china. The cracks are infinitesimally narrow, so fine that you need sensible senses to notice them.

It hurts to stand still. Legions of the heart wash over untold words, sipping feelings which comfort one another with ever so much indecision that it’s hard to tell one embrace from another.

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