A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft, almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares was more akin to its truest nature swirl of black ashes assembled in prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or stillnesses between the notes of a song.
And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee. Come, wander with me, she said, Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Man dwells apart, though not alone, He walks among his peers unread; The best of thoughts which he hath known For lack of listeners are not said.jean ingelow
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