And we lay ourselves down to sleep, beneath the starry heavens, the whirring
of our own heart reminiscent of machinery, understood but not explained;
always the how, not the why-- we lay ourselves into the shoebox, covered
with dirt, we lie there and think---lie there and think.
It is comforting lying in the dirt. I do it often. It is like lying near
the body of someone you love, inhaling in their odours, the crevices. The
crumbly dirt. I was lying on it for hours today, looking at the ants, pushing
the dirt with my nose. Pretending that I had no hands. I don't know why
I do this, it isn't clean. Sometimes I lie in the mud, lifting my shirt
until my entire belly is covered with the fine grainy mud. There is little
or no rocks, no glass. That is why I lie here. And it is alright, simply
lying there, breathing against the soil.
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