it was intorelable: the thought of being exiled from beauty, of having to look at it with the same resignation as when you look at something you know you will never have, something you are not worthy of. That really killed me.
The possibility of yourself becoming that beauty, even if only once, simply by wadding into it, letting it flow in through the pores of your skin; rolling in it, mud, dust, rain or sand, smearing it all over you- suddently I was feeling wild- how could anyone exclude that possibility from their life?
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