It's not that life lived alone, in solitude, could bring no grace. But in every dream I have of the end (or versions of the end), always there are multitudes massed on broken highways, trekking through sandstorms or huddled together in a field. Wherever they were from, they only know they can't go back. Days and nights are cinematic with signs and wonders— a bear's pelt at the edge of a wood, as if the animal had merely stepped clean out of a sleek jumpsuit; small bones linked together like hands. Cricket and stag beetle mandibles like masks discarded after a costume ball. And everywhere, notched shadows on stone and iron marking the last fire, last flood. I used to think I wouldn't mind finishing out the days tending my own quiet. But now I know I'd want to feel something pressing back against my touch, saying I'm here.
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