[Response to: He thought he was made of meat]

July 3: When I returned to the wicked city of my dreams and sat by a fountain (murmuring) on an overcast day, I finally began to feel the peace I had come so far to find. I had known fear once, as the silhouette of a dog standing silent and motionless on a lonely road. I had imagined myself warm and alive as waves rose up and broke around me, while the outstretched hand of death welcomed me to a cool and inviting sea. The silence was complete at times; at other times the cacophony of voices became a texture as soft as prairie grass, rippling. And everywhere I went, cats followed me. But I grew to understand them, and learned to see the loneliness in their crafty elegance. And as I prepared to step up to a new beginning, I saw that it had already begun, one night in a garden as the triumphal strains of an orchestra heralded victory, a victory that will not define me. There was a long stretch of road between these places, one where details popped with dizzying clarity. As I traveled, tapestries unraveling into threads, I remembered myself. I learned to tie my shoelaces. Now I had returned to the wicked city, but it was not the same place. The streets were no longer tinted gray or yellow depending on the weather. They had texture and shadows, and color too, but they were just streets, unmoved by my motion and indifferent to my desires. A forgettable place, now. And though the sun never shone so brightly, the city had lost the shimmering, mesmerizing hold it had once had on me. An end and a beginning, a pause and a memory, and all of it destined to leech into the groundwater and lose itself in caverns under the fields. I knew then that my journey was finally over.


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