There is a magic dust that settles over and into Japan. It falls into the interstices of time and space, unstoppable, inevitable. It finds a home in the cilia of my lungs, barely opened, in the saccades of my eyes, hardly seen. It nestles into the silence between sound, the invisible star. Something more real than perception.
What crevice can go untouched? How slowly can one breathe? What lives between one heart beat and the next? (and the next, and the next, and the next.....)
When I leave here, what will I take with me?
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