For wholeness, I only want to see what's really not there when you turn to gel down your hair in the mirror, cow-licking to intensity those wide, brash eyes and that querulous stare that seems to say, look at me! look at me and relive the pain of knowing you were once a tree, a lush garden shady spot in the bowels of the city, avec some inner-knowing, far-reaching familiar rootless limbs and leaves.
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