Dear Wigleaf, There's no moon at all, only the distant porch lights of a few lonely houses, seen briefly from the road as the road through midnight twists around the mountain, retracing the fluid possibilities of language, objects lit from inside, cathedrals of fire in eruption, where your God is too small, a hole of your own making, but still you believe. Howie - - -
Read HG's story.
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