October stillness, pitch at three in the morning but your restless. Kettle on, you bundle yourself in flannel and boots before making tea in the red clay mug, before stepping out under the vast black-moss dome of the world. Star-fields sing at this time of year in a way which takes an accustomed mind not to reject the voices out of hand as tinnitus or the hallucinogenic effect of tea. Deneb, stolen from the tail of the swan Cygnus cries like a fox , quivering your vertibra and the small bones of your hands; the cry invokes harmonics within tea within clay. A slight breeze rustles the leaves of the closest maple as the first meteorite flashes the atmosphere.

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