The stars still float in their endless ocean of cobalt sky and I have come to the frayed end of sleep. I am the softest thing about at this hour. Even the smallest songbirds have hunched, solid as stone, within the pine and juniper. I cannot properly see my mountains, and I have nowhere to walk to. A better man would use this quiet time to think of new inventions or solve a great riddle. But all I can do is think about my latest exhibitions of human frailty, and I become smaller and softer.
—Mitchell Hegman
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