For Marlene Rye’s Tornado show of pastels....
I've, no we've, yes, we've barely breathed our breaths except while atop a rock. we call such stones 'that rock' and ask after their sort when (rarely when) they catch our eye and then catch our mind and then catch our time; then we walk off though, in truth, we're never off a rock. This was to be wordy gifts, lyric poetries songs of green, of arch, of trees but really, even a tale of a thousand one Trembling Aspen is, in truth, a song, a story of stone.
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