The perennial search for pulse, at the bonepile, in the boneyard or when Spring fleshed green the fields ever spread for walking--have we softened,
to leave them to grow untrodden, tiring entirely of tiredness that we succumbing to rest may have lost a glow once occurred in the marrow.
No. There is no loss that does not get, nor have we ceased our looking, or lost at all. Our company with one another less than our mythology of friendship
of brotherhood carried now as one would childhood, or, later, youth and young life. Nonetheless, you are my friend and I will always need water from the well of that sense,
beyond circumstance, or distance, or living in the same town without a word for months! There are many around, Jim, but few within. Come any Siberia, the bones remain integral.
Your music, or speech, or loves, your learning and going away, there is situation inside you for all there's to do. The "grand expansion" is a turn of the head, to see friends there, me among
in clouds or mire or the same trite continuation of life. There is ever a color to find in the wood that found increases the variegation of the eye. Again, as ever, forever, do not stop the looking.
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