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400 sketchbooks, 15,000 drawings.
once called penciled dances.
i agreed with that.
each a vault, a single moment,
a few glorious seconds trapped.
twisted around each line,
the scent, the light on the water, the all of it.
like a postcard written and never sent,
a day of my life, broken into seeds,
scattered across paper,
caught in a book,
forever.