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Akhetaten I can smell the skin of your sun-inscribed thigh, here in a strange century away from you, how the sun or the touch of my fingertips could raise the down on your leg . . . the scent of your sun-fired skin always raises a hope in my chest, not of love, which was your intention of offering your thigh to the sun, but rather a belief that life will someday satisfy the soul, even though it should be clear to me how this is not the particular life . . . you were indeed the particular woman, there in the sands, there in the sun, and at last, there in the tomb, where we learned of the journey, but this is not the particular life.
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