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They say I am young. Yet, I know two ways to make it through existence as an individual in a community. You can:

a) let community take possession of you by consuming you into the coffer of expectation by the unspoken demands of a quiet dictatorship (no matter how benign or terrifying), always mindful of the brooding mothering eyes who see not what is, but what she intends to be. The community subsumes the individual. Or,

b) you can take the community into yourself, with the realization that their soul is your soul. Their sad grey-like tenement halls are palaces for the soul—electric souls floating free in the abyss within, charging, glowing, knowing—even the mother’s soul. I have been y’all. I have always been y’all. I carry you within me. My soul is a vast chest of love.

They say time, that impenetrable mistress of us all, lays waste what cannot remain, what cannot go on. This world is an easy world. Nature never made gallows, but mad hands maketh them of trees. And the observant eye and watchful soul will find eternity in a falling leaf, everlasting in soul, and sad comedy in the machinations of doomed empires.

They say there are squirrels in my attic. I hear them scrapping and scrounging. They like Berlioz. I imagine they just want in from the cold. I understand that. Who am I to cast them out? What of their souls? Are they not in my soul, also? What do I demand but marvel?

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