5th March 1671

I take wooden hands along the roads on which I walk, sing to birds, welcome clouds, I am 20 feet tall and am aware of every second that my heart beats and the clocks count down, I see the future as a friend and the past as a sunken ship from which I have escaped, No more brain shrunken bad teethed tree fingered oily garden hugging fiends, no more hair curling baton tossing snail eating sink friendly shadow chasing shallow corners, The sun shines on every road

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