We can't excavate the soul, only touch her outer lips with the fearless heart of metaphor. The soul can't excavate herself, only in some kind of mantra of Light. Like the sun we can wake up from a dream to The Dream. And the divine expansive Dream leans on the grace of flesh. We're a flaming imperfection of lovely beauty, like flocks of small birds lost in a world of sky where anything is possible. A Mystical Maze. Our hope rests on the evolution of time, on the All we cannot see.
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