Grandpa Anago once held up a mirror and showed
me a virus staining this blue jewel that pulls us
closer to it with every spin. All other creatures
listen to the whispers surrounding them and change
their voices to match, but we drown out the melody
of harmony and make our own music, molding
the face of that jewel as if it were made of wax,
compensating for our inability to adjust ourselves
to the rhythm around us. If only we could dance
with the world like a bee dashing from one flower
to the next, flirting with nature and humility.



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