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| Each night, for a year, I listened. The Chanteuse told me stories of how it was before, before the time of now, before I measured life by how many books I could read. She told me allegories of swans, of ants, of bees. She told me of the string that connects the top of my head to the heavens. She told me of trap doors and apertures in the luminous body where one could see the sanctity o f t h e u n i v e r s e . . . |
