A wisp of pale blue sky is the sandwich filling between the slices of this dawn’s darkness. There goes the first cicada, announcing itself beneath the line of washing you forgot to take in from the line yesterday. Now the usual companions, along with the sudden singing breeze passing through the great oak, join in on the daybreak. The holes that are in your head run, weep, leak, buzz. Some white chalk words from Muso Soseki sit on the small blackboard leaning on the wall. Maybe, one fine day, the limits of your desires will be these mountains, where you can contemplate the steps, cracked or not, whereby the soul travels to its first home.

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