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Doesn’t anybody in the world anymore want to get up in the middle of the night and sing?
In the beginning I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.
I walk, all day, across the heaven-verging field.
And whoever thinks these are worthy, breathy words I am writing down is kind.
It lives in my imagination strongly that the black oak is pleased to be a black oak.
