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I think the desert is beautiful but exhausting... In the heat of the summer it always seems to me that it's screaming one long agonizing note. So different from the soft green rain I grew up with...
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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