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1159 See that wind last night. I mean, tonight.

Fifteen Thousand Angels down the hall, Seven on the roof, and Twenty-Five are holding back the chimney from the wind. And in the trees, the wiggling demons dance and howl vaulting curses so perverse that bushes bend away revoltedly.

O Western Wind—Tsunami of the Sky, O Zephyrus Irate! What gripes are these that make you smash and lash and bash us so? Leave us to the wallowing of the earth. We are but lowly apes, but hairless germ-averse two-legged absences. Do not assume that we are built to fuck with you.

Fe, Foi, Faith, Eman, Vertrauen,

Trust that when it’s going wrong, it’s going right because it goes the way it should.

Now, let the outside in. Unlatch the doors. Unsheath the rolling blinds. Unfurl the curtains. Light is breaking through, the sun is wide, the sky is standing where you left it last. 

The answer is always in the clouds. Look up.

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