We get lost on the dusty road between tall reeds, trying to reach the sea, so we return to the village where dogs bark at the moon, laundry hangs behind the tavern, eagles hide on skin under shirts.
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.
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