a pile of leaves, some carved from the papers living edge
Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine,
You are more than a place. So I'll write you from here. You are more than walls and simple chimes. This you'll also know. From here beside a lark's buttered breast. Under the heavy lids and bright side kettle. We'll hum, we'll hum Bunny. Dickens be damned we'll brightly boom. Then you'll know.
Are more than this room