I love being out of sunglasses, without lenses, no contacts, sinuses clear, tongue tasting this air as the rain falls, delicately precipitating butter knives of fecund scent that permeate my head as they moisten the ground, I almost want to taste the loam, almost want to cry, but I think I'll sip this cocktail and inhale again, and again and again, swell my lungs full-moon-sized, again and again, until the sussurus leads me by the senses into sleep.

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