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RE: The Waking Journal [Psycho-Surreal Memoirs]
It's 19 degrees, flat gray, and the world outside my window is coated with ice. I read this while listening to John Dowland and pictured my muscles as thousands of snakes bound up between my skin and bones. Now it's snowing again, and the image of the cocoon, the basement, the Hermit, all glide within reach of each other.
This one really resonated, if that wasn't obvious.