Mistaking the Moon
I fear that I have made you feel at times too common: like the sound of a public school desk sliding across a dirty floor, or the sight of a shoelace dangling agreeably from its knot, or the smell of burnt toast or taste of a ham sandwich. You are so much more than a ham sandwich. You are wondrous in the same way cinnamon is wondrous as it dances and falls from its shaker, the way a porch light is wondrous when it winks rapidly right before it falls asleep forever, the way black ink is wondrous as it slides...
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