Spilt essence of light

The cookies and milk served to the star gazing kids

The musings and silt in the bed of a man panning for gold

The name of the police woman who gave you directions

The little eventual feeling of warm you know will come when spooning your soup

The first flower that pokes out of the ground

The thunder that lets you know that the storm is over

The warm screech of the violin that plays afar in the kitchen radio as your parent makes dinner as the other plays games with you

The feelings that that person on the park bench will never be able to remember as the cold cinders of night rots at their brain

That comfortable mystery you feel as you think about something you think is a universal truth but cannot be experienced by all

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