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.
For you,
Tigre

PS.
Are more than this room  
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