Meditation Furniture For Ten Minute Breaks
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While recently sleeping next to a historic cemetery I noticed that the birds sang an alarm song all night. They may have said Awake! Awake! The Ghosts are approaching. We already knew that. The Ghosts had been here for quite sometime requesting our assimilation into their being. We were tuckered out, as they say, so we thoughtlessly accepted the invitation. We loaded our minds with ideas about how one could become what we are not, in order to speak the languages of some standard. So we abscond with a harmonious squeal, from the notes of our nature until one day we hanker for revisiting our former selves. However, forever impaired our homecomings are impossibly tumultuous with our pining to touch the domestic communions we once knew has appropriately become impossible and vanished by way of vapor clouds. Vanished into vapors like the Ghosts that made the birds sing that night, leaving an illustration, an effigy of the labor embedded in our hands attempting to elicit them to transpose them into articles that are animated.