"In the interstitial compact, at the vertices of togetherness, where we fought and battled with great aplomb, the depths of the rain-mountain still tend to their varied crops. Orgiastic lavender, and cute-pears, too little but poppable in your mouth like grape tomatoes, too little to cut but pitless, and florid really, their skin like young teenagers, tragic, and dusky and all too soon, grown beyond measure, forever seeming doubtless and strange, natural and terrible." -Malik Wilson, Next Year's Music

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