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I don’t think I am old yet. Maybe that’s because I don’t want to stop growing.

I no longer hunger busyness. I have a taste for a quiet place, around me and in me.

I thirst a quenchable thirst. I’m satisfied by soft unspoken Word that plays no tricks on my mind.

I have a new affection for things with wings and feathers that I notice from edges of rooftops.

I am not envious of time. It is to me like endless running water, in and through and all about me.

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