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Oh you sweet idiot (the fig tree sang). The pain and sorrow, they come to you whether you love or not. Love as love has nothing to do with pain. Only the 2 of them, that is love and pain, huddle together under a single reality opened like a transparent poncho, a fabric that ripples while rain falls on top of everything, all things equally wet.
Then the sunlight transpired and you stood in the garden. And the fig's "hands" were huge and its leafsurface rough, and the uneaten fruit fell onto the slab in a livid color like a three dimensional bruise.
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