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All That Matters i must speak to him in tongues. some riddled language he can not understand. his own voice, a mute desert. his throat, a narrow dirt road. my words must come like an odd pounding of rain, a freak of nature, an opaque film of wet too rare to comment upon, a dust devil creating monsoon thunderstorm. perhaps they're just a little something to get his sagebrush eyes rolling or his 65 year old sahauroed pattern of thinking to sprout an arm. afraid of what possible damage i might inflict, he responds, finally, with a crack deep inside his canyon wall. there i plant a wildflower.
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