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I'm staying put, in order to listen. Moving, I can't hear the wind of my self, only that other air of displacement, a kind of clogged ear sound. I want to hear words in their true pitch. Travel brightens thought with laid-on colorings of discourse. I won't engage in it. I'm keeping quiet. I'm waiting for the question that comes out of the blue directly overhead: cloud, or first snow. I detect silence swelling into entire spheres of utterance. All of earth blooms out of krnel attention: the seed fulfilled with no less than a world.

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