Failure is angular.

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To love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, it’s tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water, more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you down like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can my body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say yes, yes, i will take you.
I will love you, again.

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