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An epitome of value gained

I unreservedly understand that nothing comes from violence as nothing ever could, but I am also reluctant to admit defeat on my eternal quest for meaningful and connected truth and I’m not yet fully considering the mournful consequences of this diminution, spending my mornings anew with the devastated left-behind brother Safran in this cosy cave I created for the both of them, for all of us really but for Young Mec, who is not allowed in, never was nor will be.

I haven’t lit these candles and oil lamps for months and the heater, suddenly broken down by itself, is adding its charm to the atmosphere needed to actively work through this ferocity while trying to discern the shape of my once again broken heart, accurately deciphering when and how my Rebel will end up on these walls, because I know he will when his actual molecules start fading, soon, but not just yet.

When we bought this unwonted collection of ancient stones on a hill, not solely arranged into a house but into a past where lots of drama doubtlessly reigned or at least was witnessed, we believed our personal attraction was entrapped in exactly those precious moments gone by that literally set themselves in these rocks, to vibrate in time as a shield against repetition, as an epitome of value gained and a guardian for prosperity.

We were completely strengthened in these alienating contemplations by the father of the previous owner, a visually aged man from Saint-Étienne, about three and a half hours to the south east from here, who had been escaping a reality we knew nothing of. I remember him being mysteriously but palpably connected to the profound energy all of these stones were offering him, healing him from fatigue, almost as well as the bitter, bitter tears he impudently cried when he had to inform us his daughter had accepted our offer.

Just the other day Ivory and I had been discussing taking away the stones on our poor old Fos’ grave, as there is no weighing down a soul already floating in freedom. When he died and we buried him at the prettiest plot Les Pierres could culminate, it soon after became the preferred hangout of Rebel, to contemplate eternity, the way only a cat can.

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