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Matthew Burnside




Sometimes crystal balls gaze back at you. Maybe the fortune teller is a beautiful liar. Maybe the future, a nexus of tripwires dripping chimes, fashioned from the dainty bones of birds dreaming of fanciful flight. There is something about not knowing. There is something to be said about if & ever. There is nothing new to know that isn’t already known in the scratched veins of a bell misremembering a wedding as a funeral. When I was young, I wanted to be an umbrella. Instead I became the rain. I am still learning to be grateful for  all these stones that do not sing. To make music of my mud.

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