These are the steps we take,cautious and quiet,over the blackened landscape, charred circles on a rocky hillside above a lazy blue river. Not to step in the ashes seems inexplicably important, as though to do so might disturb the structure of silence, the ecology of need. As though austerity itself—these angular granite ridges spattered by lichen, this small satisfaction of breathing— were a kind of virtue. And beyond that the pleasure of synchronized movement, of stable right angles and smooth fitting parts, each unique yet connected. This flame of abstraction, delusion, inscrutable secrets of things under pressure for meaning, images cast on the walls in the cave of the heart.
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