There are walls of memory and sometimes they fall away. When I was a boy in New Hampshire, there was a flower called the floating heart. This morning I saw it: five yellow petals rich among green thoughts. When she was small, my mother stepped from a boat, believing she could walk on the gold hands of the lilies. I believe I can walk around the sad mountain of philosophy by following palms like birds like sun.
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Planet of the Blind 
How beautiful. Thank you.
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