In the lights of the confessional, I waished myself clean.(I could be lyin' but at least I'm tryin'.)
Visible from without, was only the dustcloud and dirt upon the walls, that which elapsed, eminating from my person.(Copious rain, and next didn't get so much as a smell of rain, for quite a time, then it rained buckets. I had the fear on to draw water, so much as a ladle from the cropping, then it was all around, us splashing through the waters, like happy kids.)
Everywhere lights of seasons, satisfaction without reason, satisfactions with reason, such that nature was all in hands, of nature bent to the temperature, and the pitch a peculiar quietude in the Atlantic hurricane season. In the Atlantic hurricane season. (4 week high above 90, low near 50. Slept with the fan on, and my trusty comfortable blanket. Bi-polar change of seasons, with bi-polar change of sleep.)
Moonlight showed the way to the welcoming light of my hermitage, where I partake my ancient volumes, and I found my rest before the rising of the light, in the glory of the change of seasons. The glory of the change of seasons. (the Harvest Moon, P71, Plutarch.)
Betwixt the harvest, and the harvest festival, it was: I toted these satchels about, not of namesake nor provenance, birthright, but of today's reason d'habitude.
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