Don't ask the piano player —with just one finger and the sand crying in a dark place —he'll say they're names, that every song is a love song, you use both arms at first. What's left is his fingertip dry, dragged, some spark will ignite that desert, great dunes bloodstained and his heart back to pumping water, cool, clear —don't ask how long ago —he only points to that sea still on fire deep red, to the thirst you never stop hearing and wait.
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