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There’s the familiar and there is the separation.

Soham Patel

We come into a place where all the doors remain shut for the hours when the sun shines. People dance and eat sweet things. All the animals are sleeping. I make you a garland of morning glories and moonflowers and you wrap it around your waist. No songbirds interrupt the hours. No songbirds give warning when the sun is about to rise. They are sleeping with other animals. The music stops and our feet keep moving as if the music had not stopped. The people all smile at us as they go off to sleep. As they sleep we keep on dancing. Who knows what to make of it? Snores gasp and pour from snouts and nostrils. We never understand rest as something taken when not completely incapable of anything else. We whispersing some songs by memory to each other. Some we hum or make up words to as we go. Foot skin and blisters. Dust kicked up into our eyes while we danced. And then came the tears. But how could we stop? The people call this madness something divine. We are like a breath and know what we do but have no idea why we’re always doing it.

Soham Patel

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