A patch of foxglove in a verdant slum
I have been lately subject to a multitude of little Thunderbolts. Do you know? Those little bursts of hot or cold that rattle the soul for one held, but ephemeral, moment. It is not something of which you or I should speak, of course. And the One on the other end of the glance-- well, I never speak of it to that one, either. For it always passes, every time, and the static cling that lingers on is more fleeting even.
And there is no thunder sufficient to drown out the memory of the first great Striking. To that, what are all these little chocs?
Plesant sensations in a passing day: for it is plesant, to fall in love again and a again, if but for the time it takes to turn a page, blink an eyelash, or brush a speck of lint from a sweetness of shoulder.
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