We are walking in a wood. To our left I see paper in the process of dissolving in a pool of water. You are wearing a long, beautiful skirt, that I haven't seen you in before, which occasionally swishes against the clumps of newly fallen leaves. Above, the wind replies. Nearby, to our right, but out of sight, water burbles by, though the ground we walk on is gradientless. Birds chatter music all around, enjoyably consuming lingering summer insects. There are no further away sounds. We have walked like this for years, extensive explorers. Stronger. Interlinked. A twig snaps. You turn to me with a well-known, warm, calm smile. Let's keep going.
They told him he was beautiful and, until the sun dipped behind the horizon, he was. They told him he was strong and, until he became weary, he forced everyone from his path. They told him he was an explorer and, until the cold winds became too strong, he went where he'd never been before. They told him he was a man and he tried to work out what they meant. When he asked himself what matters, he crumbled. When enough had fallen away, they rebuilt. When they told themselves they were loveable, they were. When they told themselves they were beautiful, they were. When they told themselves they could cope, they did. and when they stopped to listen, all was transformed.
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