Your dreams are waft, wavy, lightly pulling hopeful longings across the skin on your forearms. You are reminded of your ambitions, of the light you see on every horizon. The illness wakes you before dawn, draws the lungs from out of your body, hits your over the head with demands for rest. You drink honey tea by the buckets, count down minutes until you may lay your head on your pillow again.
We do not reach the sprouting of spring,
without first enduring the death rattle of winter.
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