Your cousin had been visiting New York from the leading village in a long line of contenders as the capital of the Sticks, and had been wandering the great gridded concrete streets for long enough now to know that a lie down would soon be needed, for one surely wasn’t supposed to be awake so long, but hey, come on, this was, after all, New York, get yourself together, surely there couldn’t be much longer left now, and so your cousin took a handful of dried fruit and nuts from the red jacket pocket over the hip for a quick boost, to accompany the surely not too long ago now last big boost, and stopped into an art gallery for some unknown reason, maybe because it was the immediate next entrance on West 23rd St., and there, cousin, once inside, you took a backward glance and touched the golden reflection of your mind, as if from nothing you were suddenly coming into something, bridging, burgeoning, climbing a green ladder toward triplicate rainbow liberty, and come the next morning, ready to launch again at dawn, forever remembering the meaning of Varanasi without yet touching its shores, open orange crimson bursting heart expression, whispering portraits adorning every surrounding wall, singing and spilling, fission and transition, threshold crossing, where the grass is always greener, home, home, home, you said hello to everyone on this holy planet, savour the earth, hello, hello, hello.

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