"The quarry is deep with water, the mine system flooded with water. I can hear the wet echo when I lean into the tunnels’ locked gates. The mountain is honeycombed with flood like a hive flush with honey. It smells of lichen and snowmelt. As though the world is saying, where there is a crime, time will dissolve it. The mica schist I pull from the rubble is embedded with light the way I remain studded with dreams long after I wake. Mica is derived from the Latin mica, meaning a crumb, and micare, to glitter. There is no pristine wilderness but there are filaments of stars in all detritus, the heat of the sun in what exits the daylight. There is no pristine forgiveness, but there is a glut of kindness in this image I’ve carved for you."
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