...on a mission of ghost and window, of duration and fragrance, of light-slant through voids between dust motes, of immanence and mystic death.
I'm going to try and discover for myself a cogent impression of Emily Dickinson and her poems -- what that aura of her lived and written spirit might signify for me toward a paradox of reticence overflowing.
The world as precluded tomorrowness. An eccentricity of longing and gnomic grief.
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