Journeys EndPeg Duthie
The roaming of your mouth and your hands has been a map for the wandering of my wits, a soup for my ill-kneaded alphabet. Across the atlas of our secrets, the typefaces give away nothing, each dot and serif neither conceding nor concealing the water-softened, wind-sharpened, wish-distorted stones that form the base of the fountain by which fishermen die of thirst, down the street from the kitchen where the cook so carefully conducts with cold-chapped fingers the fluency of heat to starch and flesh.
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