September 12, 2009

You suggested once that your friends go with you to Black Rock City to help you incinerate what was left of us. When I found myself there, I wondered if you ever made it.

On a bare patch of wood at the Temple’s third level, I wrote a message to you, to me, to everything flourishing in our wake.

I was already home when the Temple burned, the ashes cauterizing the wound I carried too long. Miles away, I cried, bidding final farewell to the tumultuous heat, the embers that whispered my message before turning stone cold.

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