You wake with a start, sleeping synapses trying to collect themselves in the split of a second, remember where they are and what they're meant to be doing. Something about the dream chasing them into the sunrise. A few misty clouds linger on the mountaintops, but mostly the morning is still, peaceful, unhurried, the air heavy with the scent of lilacs. Lines of your heritage appear underneath your skin, like veins suddenly lifting themselves to the surface, showing you what there was no escaping.
The mallards play in the rapids outside your window.
He sends you music across the continent, washes the morning in fearless joy, you remember there is promise on the horizon, and while it will not arrive on its own, all you have to do
is walk towards it.
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