“And what if those grasshoppers had been locusts depending, I thought, and what if I stood awake In a swarm? I cannot ask for more than to be so wholly acted upon, flown at, and lighted on in throngs, probed, knocked, even bitten. A little blood from the wrists and throat is the price I would willingly pay for that pressure of clacking weights on my shoulders, for the scent of deserts, ground fire in my ears—for being so in the cluttering thick of things, rapt and unwrapped in the rising and falling real world.”

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Chapter 12

Christopher Kissock
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