Sometimes comes a random burst of love for parts of her body: her feet, their thick-skinned soles and neat toes, or the delicacy and strength of her hands, or something stranger like her teeth. Then she finds the meditation space as a place of strangeness, nothing really happening, but it morphs and shades itself, and brightens again, in its own mysterious geometry. Also sometimes an instantaneous sense, of a film, a person, a memory, which she’d never be able to describe. Her brain can trick her into thinking something is pictorial until the moment she opens her mouth to talk about it: like
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