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12-9-15 I’ve followed the singing of bent silver bells along so many stepping stones made of smoke that now I can’t seem to find my footing to take a step back. I can find many ways upward and away but few, if any toward… toward. Echoing in the chambers of my chest I hear the bones of fae cracking in the jaws of cackling hyenas and the roar of knocked over candles setting ablaze the curtains of the ballroom. I’m thankful my imagination loves the heat of the inferno, finding such pleasure in passion, but I do hope the smell of smoke doesn’t stick with the upholstery