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He is my great grand uncle. This fella. The ancestors are trying to continue the mysterious larval flow that longs to belong to the soul of the earth.
The wounds keep appearing and sacrifice is required to get out of that back eddy where the dogs go to die.
The old melancholy with its mix of anger stuck with sorrow needs the rage and grief to find its ritual way.
Maybe what the river speaks with it s murk. The way we carry the hurt. The way we can sing with lamentations into the eels and the black fish.
So that they know.
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