I am at ease in my donjon. purple walls and fabric ceilings cream colored and held up with staples. the back door is old, weathered and wooden with only a latch to hold it closed at night. But i feel safe. The old weathered door is draped with purple muscidine vines, in seasona nd ready to be snacked on during leasure time. The old weathered door leads out to a courtyard with pale, gray stones that were layed with love. the courtyard is lined with dirty plastic lawn chairs that invite you to sit and watch while the sunsets over the treeline ahead. Lightning bugs light up during dusk while in motion like little shooting stars. The night birds come to fly in circles around the house. Their nightly ritual at nine. Misquetos bite me between the toes, but i'll tolerate it because the crickets whistle in their malotic rhythems. The cicadas crecendo and decrecendo. the night is breathing. Though it is dark where you during this time in space, the world is still very much alive.
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Creating a romance with daytime and night time. slowdancing on crooked, warped stone floors grouted by my hands. Brains smushed together, led by the motion of haphazard footwork trying to makesense of the uneven ground grouping for balance.
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