What brilliant wonder it is to dash about in the lightning and crack of thunder, the wet hands of a thousand small gods rushing down from heaven to meet your warm skin.
Or this morning, the throngs pounding at your window, singing for your ears, as you lie, tucked deliciously under the mountain of quilts, your head held up by goose down, as your eyes, your soul, and soon your own voice melt into a lavish fictional world guided by small black ink print on yellowed paper pages.
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