The light that pivots away from us at your point in this year makes you gorgeous and sleep and always returns to you, through the ellipse coloured red for winter. And the possibility of loss is the sharpening edge whose peril cuts your benefits out in strong relief, it also returns, not as habit but as force that drives the work that drives away death: this love of the earth, this shining hot exuberance that needs everything indifferently. The 24th returns us to each other, across gaps in sight and distances which aren’t so great, treats the vibrations as the motor blocks tick over. The things are all just two kinds, everything in the sky feeds them, nothing is indifferent. We are two kinds made not in each other’s images but recently, and then our bodies slide across the pure mathematics which rule their orbits, becoming less than one, a continuity which can be trusted to keep returning, whenever faded, through the red that casts our love in relief a halo holding the whole system, a field of work, a starry meadow, a human, you think you’re the gift of all the gods you see around us.
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