Two hours, three, sitting at a table, typing word after word, stringing sentences together that hold entire lifetimes within them, while my body is caught in stillness as my mind unwinds the coil of a story onto page after white, glowing page. I am planted, rooted to this chair, this desk, this space in time, writing, remembering, dreaming of a history hidden in the recesses of my mind, drawing it down through my limbs, my fingertips, and out into the world. Leaves uncurling one by one, each movement invisible to the naked eye, painfully slow progress, each passing second a micrometer exposed, and the next day a leaf, a stalk, from a changed plant, greets the world.
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