Sew my hand into this fabric of earth, so deeply-rooted-that I may feel this memory. This coursing-pulse, this pounding-heart. Rusted stories still cling to backs of our mind. Discursive thoughts vanishing upon the fixed-horizon. To behold—the presence of being. To feel its weight in bone, to remember our presence as its own.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Philipp Haager



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